"I— I  CAME  HERE  TO — TO  KILL  YOU — ONLY  I  CAN'T  DO  IT. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE 
OF   LIGHT, 


BY 


WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

i  • 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  INSIDE  OF  THE  CUP,"  "A  FAR  COUNTRY 
"  THE  CRISIS,"  "  RICHARD  CARVEL,"  ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1917 

All  right*  rtMrvtd 


55 


C 


COPTRIQHT,  1916,  1917, 

BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  CO. 

(Hearst's.) 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  October,  1917. 


Norfcoooti  $res8 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co, 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


Where  is  the  way  to  the  dwelling-place  of  light?  " 


3C9882 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF   LIGHT 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

CHAPTER  I 


IN  this  modern  industrial  civilization  of  which  we  are 
sometimes  wont  to  boast,  a  certain  glacier-like  process  may 
be  observed.  The  bewildered,  the  helpless  —  and  there 
are  many  —  are  torn  from  the  parent  rock,  crushed,  rolled 
smooth,  and  left  stranded  in  strange  places.  Thus  was 
Edward  Bumpus  severed  and  rolled  from  the  ancestral 
ledge,  from  the  firm  granite  of  seemingly  stable  and  lasting 
things,  into  shifting  shale;  surrounded  by  fragments  of 
cliffs  from  distant  lands  he  had  never  seen.  Thus,  at  five 
and  fifty,  he  found  himself  gate-keeper  of  the  leviathan 
Chippering  Mill  in  the  city  of  Hampton. 

That  the  polyglot,  smoky  settlement  sprawling  on  both 
sides  of  an  historic  river  should  be  a  part  of  his  native  New 
England  seemed  at  tunes  to  be  a  hideous  dream ;  nor  could 
he  comprehend  what  had  happened  to  him,  and  to  the  world 
of  order  and  standards  and  religious  sanctions  into  which 
he  had  been  born.  His  had  been  a  life  of  relinquishments. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  clung  to  the  institution  he  had  been 
taught  to  believe  was  the  rock  of  ages,  the  Congregational 
Church,  finally  to  abandon  it;  even  that  assuming  a  form 
fantastic  and  unreal,  as  embodied  in  the  edifice  three  blocks 
distant  from  Fillmore  Street  which  he  had  attended  for  a 
brief  time,  some  ten  years  before,  after  his  arrival  in  Hamp 
ton.  The  building,  indeed,  was  symbolic  of  a  decadent  and 
bewildered  Puritanism  in  its  pathetic  attempt  to  keep 

B  1 


2  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

abreast  with  the  age,  to  compromise  with  anarchy,  merely 
achieving  a  nondescript  medley  of  rounded,  knob-like 
towers  covered  with  mulberry-stained  shingles.  And  the 
minister  was  sensational  and  dramatic.  He  looked  like  an 
actor,  he  aroused  in  Edward  Bumpus  an  inherent  prejudice 
that  condemned  the  stage.  Half  a  block  from  this  taber 
nacle  stood  a  Roman  Catholic  Church,  prosperous,  brazen, 
serene,  flaunting  an  eternal  permanence  amidst  the  chaos 
which  had  succeeded  permanence! 

There  were,  to  be  sure,  other  Protestant  churches  where 
Edward  Bumpus  and  his  wife  might  have  gone.  One  in 
particular,  which  he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  mill,  with  its 
terraced  steeple  and  classic  facade,  preserved  all  the  outward 
semblance  of  the  old  Order  that  once  had  seemed  so  endur 
ing  and  secure.  He  hesitated  to  join  the  decorous  and 
dwindling  congregation,  —  the  remains  of  a  social  stratum 
from  which  he  had  been  pried  loose ;  and  —  more  irony  — 
this  street,  called  Warren,  of  arching  elms  and  white-gabled 
houses,  was  now  the  abiding  place  of  those  prosperous 
Irish  who  had  moved  thither  from  the  tenements  and  ruled 
the  city. 

On  just  such  a  street  in  the  once  thriving  New  England 
village  of  Dolton  had  Edward  been  born.  In  Dolton  Bum- 
pus  was  once  a  name  of  names,  rooted  there  since  the  seven 
teenth  century,  and  if  you  had  cared  to  listen  he  would 
have  told  you,  in  a  dialect  precise  but  colloquial,  the  history 
of  a  family  that  by  right  of  priority  and  service  should  have 
been  destined  to  inherit  the  land,  but  whose  descendants 
were  preserved  to  see  it  delivered  to  the  alien.  The  God 
of  Cotton  Mather  and  Jonathan  Edwards  had  been  tried 
in  the  balance  and  found  wanting.  Edward  could  never 
understand  this;  or  why  the  Universe,  so  long  static  and 
immutable,  had  suddenly  begun  to  move.  He  had  always 
been  prudent,  but  in  spite  of  youthful  "advantages,"  of  an 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  3 

education,  so  called,  from  a  sectarian  college  on  a  hill,  he 
had  never  been  taught  that,  while  prudence  may  prosper 
in  a  static  world,  it  is  a  futile  virtue  in  a  dynamic  one.  Ex 
perience  even  had  been  powerless  to  impress  this  upon  him. 
For  more  than  twenty  years  after  leaving  college  he  had 
clung  to  a  clerkship  in  a  Dolton  mercantile  establishment 
before  he  felt  justified  in  marrying  Hannah,  the  daughter 
of  Elmer  Wench,  when  the  mercantile  establishment  amal 
gamated  with  a  rival  —  and  Edward's  services  were  no 
longer  required.  During  the  succession  of  precarious 
places  with  decreasing  salaries  he  had  subsequently  held  a 
terrified  sense  of  economic  pressure  had  gradually  crept 
over  him,  presently  growing  strong  enough,  after  two  girls 
had  arrived,  to  compel  the  abridgment  of  the  family.  ...  It 
would  be  painful  to  record  in  detail  the  cracking-off  process, 
the  slipping  into  shale,  the  rolling,  the  ending  up  in  Hamp 
ton,  where  Edward  had  now  for  some  dozen  years  been  keeper 
of  one  of  the  gates  in  the  frowning  brick  wall  bordering  the 
canal,  —  a  position  obtained  for  him  by  a  compassionate 
but  not  too  prudent  childhood  friend  who  had  risen  in  life 
and  knew  the  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill,  Mr.  Claude 
Ditmar.  Thus  had  virtue  failed  to  hold  its  own. 

One  might  have  thought  in  all  these  years  he  had  sat 
within  the  gates  staring  at  the  brick  row  of  the  company's 
boarding  houses  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  canal  that 
reflection  might  have  brought  a  certain  degree  of  enlight 
enment.  It  was  not  so.  The  fog  of  Edward's  bewilder 
ment  never  cleared,  and  the  unformed  question  was  ever 
clamouring  for  an  answer  —  how  had  it  happened  ?  Job's 
cry.  How  had  it  happened  to  an  honest  and  virtuous  man, 
the  days  of  whose  forebears  had  been  long  in  the  land 
which  the  Lord  their  God  had  given  them?  Inherently 
American,  though  lacking  the  saving  quality  of  push  that 
had  been  the  making  of  men  like  Ditmar,  he  never  ceased 


4  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  regard  with  resentment  and  distrust  the  hordes  of  for 
eigners  trooping  between  the  pillars,  though  he  refrained 
from  expressing  these  sentiments  in  public;  a  bent,  broad 
shouldered,  silent  man  of  that  unmistakable  physiognomy 
which,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  almost  wholly  deserted 
the  old  England  for  the  new.  The  ancestral  features  were 
there,  the  lips  —  covered  by  a  grizzled  moustache  —  moulded 
for  the  precise  formation  that  emphasizes  such  syllables  as 
el,  the  hooked  nose  and  sallow  cheeks,  the  grizzled  brows 
and  grey  eyes  drawn  down  at  the  corners.  But  for  all  its 
ancestral  strength  of  feature,  it  was  a  face  from  which  will 
had  been  extracted,  and  lacked  the  fire  and  fanaticism,  the 
indomitable  hardness  it  should  have  proclaimed,  and  which 
have  been  so  characteristically  embodied  in  Mr.  St.  Gau- 
dens's  statue  of  the  Puritan.  His  clothes  were  slightly 
shabby,  but  always  neat. 

Little  as  one  might  have  guessed  it,  however,  what  may 
be  called  a  certain  transmuted  enthusiasm  was  alive  in  him. 
He  had  a  hobby  almost  amounting  to  an  obsession,  not  un 
common  amongst  Americans  who  have  slipped  downward  in 
the  social  scale.  It  was  the  Bumpus  Family  in  America. 
He  collected  documents  about  his  ancestors  and  relations,  he 
wrote  letters  with  a  fine,  painful  penmanship  on  a  ruled 
block  he  bought  at  Hartshorne's  drug  store  to  distant  Bum- 
puses  in  Kansas  and  Illinois  and  Michigan,  common  descend 
ants  of  Ebenezer,  the  original  immigrant,  of  Dolton.  Many 
of  these  western  kinsmen  answered :  not  so  the  magisterial 
Bumpus  who  lived  in  Boston  on  the  water  side  of  Beacon, 
whom  likewise  he  had  ventured  to  address,  —  to  the  in 
dignation  and  disgust  of  his  elder  daughter,  Janet. 

"Why  are  you  so  proud  of  Ebenezer?"  she  demanded 
once,  scornfully. 

"Why?     Aren't  we  descended  from  him?" 

"How  many  generations?" 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  5 

"Seven,"  said  Edward,  promptly,  emphasizing  the  last 
syllable. 

Janet  was  quick  at  figures.  She  made  a  mental  cal 
culation. 

"Well,  you've  got  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  other 
ancestors  of  Ebenezer's  tune,  haven't  you?" 

Edward  was  a  little  surprised.  He  had  never  thought 
of  this,  but  his  ardour  for  Ebenezer  remained  undampened. 
Genealogy  —  his  own  —  had  become  his  religion,  and  in 
stead  of  going  to  church  he  spent  his*  Sunday  mornings 
poring  over  papers  of  various  degrees  of  discolouration, 
making  careful  notes  on  the  ruled  block. 

This  consciousness  of  his  descent  from  good  American 
stock  that  had  somehow  been  deprived  of  its  heritage,  while 
a  grievance  to  him,  was  also  a  comfort.  It  had  a  compen 
sating  side,  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  sympathy  of  his  daughters 
and  his  wife.  Hannah  Bumpus  took  the  situation  more 
grimly :  she  was  a  logical  projection  in  a  new  environment 
of  the  religious  fatalism  of  ancestors  whose  God  was  a  God 
of  vengeance.  She  did  not  concern  herself  as  to  what  all 
this  vengeance  was  about;  life  was  a  trap  into  which  all 
mortals  walked  sooner  or  later,  and  her  particular  trap 
had  a  treadmill,  —  a  round  of  household  duties  she  kept 
whirling  with  an  energy  that  might  have  made  their  fortunes 
if  she  had  been  the  head  of  the  family.  It  is  bad  to  be  a 
fatalist  unless  one  has  an  incontrovertible  belief  in  one's 
destiny,  —  which  Hannah  had  not.  But  she  kept  the  little 
flat  with  its  worn  furniture,  —  which  had  known  so  many 
journeys  —  as  clean  as  a  merchant  ship  of  old  Salem,  and 
when  it  was  scoured  and  dusted  to  her  satisfaction  she 
would  sally  forth  to  Bonnaccossi's  grocery  and  provision 
store  on  the  corner  to  do  her  bargaining  in  competition  with 
the  Italian  housewives  of  the  neighborhood.  She  was 
wont,  indeed,  to  pause  outside  for  a  moment,  her  quick 


6  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

eye  encompassing  the  coloured  prints  of  red  and  yellow 
jellies  cast  in  rounded  moulds,  decked  with  slices  of  orange, 
the  gaudy  boxes  of  cereals  and  buckwheat  flour,  the  "  Brook- 
field"  eggs  in  packages.  Significant,  this  modern  package 
system,  of  an  era  of  flats  with  little  storage  space.  She 
took  in  at  a  glance  the  blue  lettered  placard  announcing 
the  current  price  of  butterine,  and  walked  around  to  the 
other  side  of  the  store,  on  Holmes  Street,  where  the  beef 
and  bacon  hung,  where  the  sidewalk  stands  were  filled,  in 
the  autumn,  with  cranberries,  apples,  cabbages,  and  spinach. 
With  little  outer  complaint  she  had  adapted  herself  to 
the  constantly  lowering  levels  to  which  her  husband  had 
dropped,  and  if  she  hoped  that  in  Fillmore  Street  they  had 
reached  bottom,  she  did  not  say  so.  Her  unbetrayed  regret 
was  for  the  loss  of  what  she  would  have  called  "respecta 
bility"  ;  and  the  giving  up,  long  ago,  in  the  little  city  which 
had  been  their  home,  of  the  servant  girl  had  been  the  first 
wrench.  Until  they  came  to  Hampton  they  had  always 
lived  in  houses,  and  her  adaptation  to  a  flat  had  been  hard 
—  a  flat  without  a  parlour.  Hannah  Bumpus  regarded 
a  parlour  as  necessary  to  a  respectable  family  as  a  wedding 
ring  to  a  virtuous  woman.  Janet  and  Lise  would  be  growing 
up,  there  would  be  young  men,  and  no  place  to  see  them 
save  the  sidewalks.  The  fear  that  haunted  her  came  true, 
and  she  never  was  reconciled.  The  two  girls  went  to  the 
public  schools,  and  afterwards,  inevitably,  to  work,  and 
it  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  her  punishment  for  the  sins  of  her 
forefathers  that  she  had  no  more  control  over  them  than 
if  they  had  been  boarders;  while  she  looked  on  helplessly, 
they  did  what  they  pleased ;  Janet,  whom  she  never  under 
stood,  was  almost  as  much  a  source  of  apprehension  as  Lise, 
who  became  part  and  parcel  of  all  Hannah  deemed  reprehen 
sible  in  this  new  America  which  she  refused  to  recognize 
and  acknowledge  as  her  own  country. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  7 

To  send  them  through  the  public  schools  had  been  a 
struggle.  Hannah  used  to  lie  awake  nights  wondering 
what  would  happen  if  Edward  became  sick.  It  worried 
her  that  they  never  saved  any  money :  try  as  she  would  to 
cut  the  expenses  down,  there  was  a  limit  of  decency ;  Xew 
England  thrift,  hitherto  justly  celebrated,  was  put  to  shame 
by  that  which  the  foreigners  displayed,  and  which  would 
have  delighted  the  souls  of  gentlemen  of  the  Manchester 
school.  Every  once  in  a  while  there  rose  up  before  her 
fabulous  instances  of  this  thrift,  of  Italians  and  Jews  who, 
ignorant  emigrants,  bad  entered  the  mills  only  a  few  years 
before  they,  the  Bumpuses,  had  come  to  Hampton,  and 
were  now  independent  property  owners.  Still  rankling  in 
Hannah's  memory  was  a  day  when  Lise  had  returned  from 
school,  dark  and  mutinous,  with  a  tale  of  such  a  family. 
One  of  the  younger  children  was  a  classmate. 

"They  live  on  Jordan  Street  in  a  house,  and  Laura  has 
roller  skates.  I  don't  see  why  I  can't." 

This  was  one  of  the  occasions  on  which  Hannah  had 
given  vent  to  her  indignation.  Lise  was  fourteen.  Her 
open  rebellion  was  less  annoying  than  Janet's  silent  re 
proach,  but  at  least  she  had  something  to  take  hold  of. 

"Well,  Lise,"  she  said,  shifting  the  saucepan  to  another 
part  of  the  stove,  "I  guess  if  your  father  and  I  had  put 
both  you  girls  in  the  mills  and  crowded  into  one  room  and 
cooked  in  a  corner,  and  lived  on  onions  and  macaroni,  and 
put  four  boarders  each  in  the  other  rooms,  I  guess  we  could 
have  had  a  house,  too.  We  can  start  in  right  now,  if  you're 
willing." 

But  Lise  had  only  looked  darker. 

"  I  don't  see  why  father  can't  make  money  —  other  men 
do." 

"  Isn't  he  working  as  hard  as  he  can  to  send  you  to  school, 
and  give  you  a  chance?" 


8  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  don't  want  that  kind  of  a  chance.  There's  Sadie 
Howard  at  school  —  she  don't  have  to  work.  She  liked 
me  before  she  found  out  where  I  lived.  ..." 

There  was  an  element  of  selfishness^  in  Hannah's  mania 
for  keeping  busy,  for  doing  all  their  housework  and  cooking 
herself.  She  could  not  bear  to  have  her  daughters  inter 
fere  ;  perhaps  she  did  not  want  to  give  herself  time  to  think. 
Her  affection  for  Edward,  such  as  it  was,  her  loyalty  to  him, 
was  the  logical  result  of  a  conviction  ingrained  in  early 
youth  that  marriage  was  an  indissoluble  bond ;  a  point  of 
view,  once  having  a  religious  sanction,  no  less  powerful 
now  that  —  all  unconsciously  —  it  had  deteriorated  into 
a  superstition.  Hannah,  being  a  fatalist,  was  not  relig 
ious.  The  beliefs  of  other  days,  when  she  had  donned 
her  best  dress  and  gone  to  church  on  Sundays,  had 
simply  lapsed  and  left  —  habits.  No  new  beliefs  had  taken 
their  place.  .  .  . 

Even  after  Janet  and  Lise  had  gone  to  work  the  house 
hold  never  seemed  to  gain  that  margin  of  safety  for  which 
Hannah  yearned.  Always,  when  they  were  on  the  verge  of 
putting  something  by,  some  untoward  need  or  accident 
seemed  to  arise  on  purpose  to  swallow  it  up :  Edward,  for 
instance,  had  been  forced  to  buy  a  new  overcoat,  the  linoleum 
on  the  dining-room  floor  must  be  renewed,  and  Lise  had  had 
a  spell  of  sickness,  losing  her  position  in  a  flower  shop. 
Afterwards,  when  she  became  a  saleslady  in  the  Bagatelle, 
that  flamboyant  department  store  in  Faber  Street,  she  earned 
four  dollars  and  a  half  a  week.  Two  of  these  were  supposed 
to  go  into  the  common  fund,  but  there  were  clothes  to  buy ; 
Lise  loved  finery,  and  Hannah  had  not  every  week  the  heart 
to  insist.  Even  when,  on  an  occasional  Saturday  night 
the  girl  somewhat  consciously  and  defiantly  flung  down 
the  money  on  the  dining-room  table  she  pretended  not  to 
notice  it.  But  Janet,  who  was  earning  six  dollars  as  a 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  9 

stenographer  in  the  office  of  the  Chippering  j\Iill,  regularly 
gave  half  of  hers. 

The  girls  could  have  made  more  money  as  operatives, 
but  strangely  enough  in  the  Bumpus  family  social  hopes 
were  not  vet  extinct. 


Sharply,  rudely,  the  cold  stillness  of  the  whiter  mornings 
was  broken  by  agitating  waves  of  sound,  penetrating  the 
souls  of  sleepers.  Janet  would  stir,  her  mind  still  lingering 
on  some  dream,  soon  to  fade  into  the  inexpressible,  in  which 
she  had  been  near  to  the  fulfilment  of  a  heart's  desire. 
Each  morning,  as  the  clamour  grew  louder,  there  was  an 
interval  of  bewilderment,  of  revulsion,  until  the  realization 
came  of  mill  bells  swinging  in  high  cupolas  above  the  river, 
—  one  rousing  another.  She  could  even  distinguish  the 
bells:  the  deep-toned,  penetrating  one  belonged  to  the 
Patuxent  Mill,  over  on  the  west  side,  while  the  Arundel 
had  a  high,  ominous  reverberation  like  a  fire  bell.  When 
at  last  the  clangings  had  ceased  she  would  lie  listening  to 
the  overtones  throbbing  in  the  air,  high  and  low,  high  and 
low ;  lie  shrinking,  awaiting  the  second  summons  that  never 
failed  to  terrify,  the  siren  of  the  Chippering  Mill,  —  to  her 
the  cry  of  an  insistent,  hungry  monster  demanding  its  daily 
food,  the  symbol  of  a  stern,  ugly,  and  unrelenting  necessity. 

Beside  her  in  the  bed  she  could  feel  the  soft  body  of  her 
younger  sister  cuddling  up  to  her  in  fright.  In  such  rare 
moments  as  this  her  heart  melted  towards  Lise,  and  she 
would  fling  a  protecting  arm  about  her.  A  sense  of  Lise's 
need  of  protection  invaded  her,  a  sharp  conviction,  like  a 
pang,  that  Lise  was  destined  to  wander  :  Janet  was  never  so 
conscious  of  the  feeling  as  in  this  dark  hour,  though  it  came 
to  her  at  other  times,  when  they  were  not  quarreling.  Quar 
reling  seemed  to  be  the  normal  reaction  between  them. 


10  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

It  was  Janet,  presently,  who  would  get  up,  shivering, 
close  the  window,  and  light  the  gas,  revealing  the  room 
which  the  two  girls  shared  together.  Against  the  middle 
of  one  wall  was  the  bed,  opposite  this  a  travel-dented  walnut 
bureau  with  a  marble  top,  with  an  oval  mirror  into  which 
were  stuck  numerous  magazine  portraits  of  the  masculine 
and  feminine  talent  adorning  the  American  stage,  a  pre 
ponderance  of  the  music  hall  variety.  There  were  pictures 
of  other  artists  whom  the  recondite  would  have  recognized 
as  "movie"  stars,  amazing  yet  veridic  stories  of  whose 
wealth  Lise  read  in  the  daily  press  :  all  possessed  limousines 
—  an  infallible  proof,  to  Lise,  of  the  measure  of  artistic 
greatness.  Between  one  of  these  movie  millionaires  and  an 
ex-legitimate  lady  who  now  found  vaudeville  profitable 
was  wedged  the  likeness  of  a  popular  idol  whose  connection 
with  the  footlights  would  doubtless  be  contingent  upon  a 
triumphant  acquittal  at  the  hands  of  a  jury  of  her  country 
men,  and  whose  trial  for  murder,  in  Chicago,  was  chronicled 
daily  in  thousands  of  newspapers  and  followed  by  Lise  with 
breathless  interest  and  sympathy.  She  was  wont  to  stare 
at  this  lady  while  dressing  and  exclaim  :  — 

"Say,  I  hope  they  put  it  all  over  that  district  attorney  I" 

To  such  sentiments,  though  deeply  felt  by  her  sister, 
Janet  remained  cold,  though  she  was,  as  will  be  seen,  capable 
of  enthusiasms.  Lise  was  a  truer  daughter  of  her  time 
and  country  in  that  she  had  the  national  contempt  for  law, 
was  imbued  with  the  American  hero-worship  of  criminals 
that  caused  the  bombardment  of  Cora  Wellman's  jail  with 
candy,  fruit  and  flowers  and  impassioned  letters.  Janet 
recalled  there  had  been  others  before  Mrs.  Wellman,  caught 
within  the  meshes  of  the  law,  who  had  incited  in  her  sister 
a  similar  partisanship. 

It  was  Lise  who  had  given  the  note  of  ornamentation 
to  the  bedroom.  Against  the  cheap  faded  lilac  and  gold 


THE  DWELLING-^LACE  OF  LIGHT  11 

wall-paper  were  tacked  photo-engravings  that  had  taken  the 
younger  sister's  fancy :  a  young  man  and  woman,  clad  in 
scanty  bathing  suits,  seated  side  by  side  in  a  careening 
sail  boat,  —  the  work  of  a  popular  illustrator  whose  manly 
and  womanly  "types"  had  become  national  ideals.  There 
were  other  drawings,  if  not  all  by  the  same  hand,  at  least 
by  the  same  school ;  one,  sketched  in  bold  strokes,  of  a  dinner 
party  in  a  stately  neo-classic  dining-room,  the  table  laden 
with  flowers  and  silver,  the  bare-throated  women  with 
jewels.  A  more  critical  eye  than  Lise's,  gazing  upon  this 
portrayal  of  the  Valhalla  of  success,  might  have  detected 
in  the  young  men,  immaculate  in  evening  dress,  a  certain 
effort  to  feel  at  home,  to  converse  naturally,  which  their 
square  jaws  and  square  shoulders  belied.  This  was  no 
doubt  the  fault  of  the  artist's  models,  who  had  failed  to 
live  up  to  the  part.  At  any  rate,  the  sight  of  these  young 
gods  of  leisure,  the  contemplation  of  the  stolid  butler  and 
plush  footmen  in  the  background  never  failed  to  make 
Lise's  heart  beat  faster. 

On  the  marble  of  the  bureau  amidst  a  litter  of  toilet 
articles,  and  bought  by  Lise  for  a  quarter  at  the  Bagatelle 
bargain  counter,  was  an  oval  photograph  frame  from  which 
the  silver  wash  had  begun  to  rub  off,  and  the  band  of  purple 
velvet  inside  the  metal  had  whitened.  The  frame  always 
contained  the  current  object  of  Lise's  affections,  though  the 
exhibits  —  as  Janet  said  —  were  subject  to  change  without 
notice.  The  Adonis  who  now  reigned  had  black  hair  cut 
in  the  prevailing  Hampton  fashion,  very  long  in  front  and 
hanging  down  over  his  eyes  like  a  Scottish  terrier's;  very 
long  behind,  too,  but  ending  suddenly,  shaved  in  a  careful 
curve  at  the  neck  and  around  the  ears.  It  had  almost  the 
appearance  of  a  Japanese  wig.  The  manly  beauty  of  Mr. 
Max  Wylie  was  of  the  lantern-jawed  order,  and  in  his  photo 
graph  he  conveyed  the  astonished  and  pained  air  of  one  wrho 


12  THE  DWELLING-^LACE  OF  LIGHT 

has  been  suddenly  seized  by  an  invisible  officer  of  the  law 
from  behind.  This  effect,  one  presently  perceived,  was 
due  to  the  high,  stiff  collar,  the  "Torture  Brand,"  Janet 
called  it,  when  she  and  her  sister  were  engaged  in  one  of  their 
frequent  controversies  about  life  in  general :  the  obvious 
retort  to  this  remark,  which  Lise  never  failed  to  make,  was 
that  Janet  could  boast  of  no  beaux  at  all. 

It  is  only  fair  to  add  that  the  photograph  scarcely  did 
Mr.  Wylie  justice.  In  real  life  he  did  not  wear  the  collar, 
he  was  free  and  easy  in  his  manners,  sure  of  his  powers  of 
conquest.  As  Lise  observed,  he  had  made  a  home-run 
with  her  at  Slattery's  Riverside  Park.  "Sadie  Hartmann 
was  sure  sore  when  I  tangoed  off  with  him,"  she  would  ob 
serve  reminiscently.  .  .  . 

It  was  Lise's  habit  to  slight  her  morning  toilet,  to  linger 
until  the  last  minute  in  bed,  which  she  left  in  reluctant  haste 
to  stand  before  the  bureau  frantically  combing  out  kinks 
of  the  brown  hair  falling  over  her  shoulders  before  jamming 
it  down  across  her  forehead  in  the  latest  mode.  Thus 
occupied,  she  revealed  a  certain  petulant  beauty.  Like  the 
majority  of  shopgirls,  she  was  small,  but  her  figure  was  good, 
her  skin  white ;  her  discontented  mouth  gave  her  the  touch 
of  piquancy  apt  to  play  havoc  with  the  work  of  the 
world.  In  winter  breakfast  was  eaten  by  the  light  of  a 
rococo  metal  lamp  set  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  This  was 
to  save  gas.  There  was  usually  a  rump  steak  and  potatoes, 
bread  and  "creamery"  butterine,  and  the  inevitable  New 
England  doughnuts.  At  six  thirty  the  whistles  screeched 
again,  —  a  warning  note,  the  signal  for  Edward's  departure ; 
and  presently,  after  a  brief  respite,  the  heavy  bells  once  more 
began  their  clamour,  not  to  die  down  until  ten  minutes  of 
seven,  when  the  last  of  the  stragglers  had  hurried  through 
the  mill  gates. 

The  Bumpus  flat  included  the  second  floor  of  a  small 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  13 

wooden  house  whose  owner  had  once  been  evilly  inspired 
to  paint  it  a  livid  clay-yellow  —  as  though  insisting  that 
ugliness  were  an  essential  attribute  of  domesticity.  A 
bay  ran  up  the  two  stories,  and  at  the  left  were  two  narrow 
doorways,  one  for  each  flat.  On  the  right  the  house  was 
separated  from  its  neighbour  by  a  narrow  interval,  giving 
but  a  precarious  light  to  the  two  middle  rooms,  the  dining- 
room  and  kitchen.  The  very  unattractiveness  of  such  a 
home,  however,  had  certain  compensations,  for  Janet,  after 
the  effort  of  early  rising  had  been  surmounted,  felt  a  real 
relief  in  leaving  it ;  a  relief,  too,  in  leaving  Fillmore  Street, 
every  feature  of  which  was  indelibly  fixed  in  her  mind : 
opposite  was  the  blind  brick  face  of  a  warehouse,  and  next 
to  that  the  converted  dwelling  house  that  held  the  shop  of 
A.  Bauer,  with  the  familiar  replica  of  a  green  ten-cent  trading 
stamp  painted  above  it  and  the  somewhat  ironical  announce 
ment  —  when  hoar  frost  whitened  the  pavement  —  that 
ice-cold  soda  was  to  be  had  within,  as  well  as  cigars  and  to 
bacco,  fruit  and  candy.  Then  came  a  tenement,  under  which 
two  enterprising  Greeks  by  the  name  of  Pappas  —  spelled 
Papas  lower  down  —  conducted  a  business  called  "The 
Gentleman/'  a  tailoring,  pressing,  and  dyeing  establishment. 
Janet  could  see  the  brilliantined  black  heads  of  the  two 
proprietors  bending  over  their  boards,  and  sometimes  they 
would  be  lifted  to  smile  at  her  as  she  passed.  The  Pappas 
Brothers  were  evidently  as  happy  in  this  drab  environment 
as  they  had  ever  been  on  the  sunny  mountain  slopes  of 
Hellas,  and  Janet  sometimes  wondered  at  this,  for  she  had 
gathered  from  her  education  in  the  Channing  public  school 
that  Greece  was  beautiful. 

She  was  one  of  the  unfortunate  who  love  beauty,  who 
are  condemned  to  dwell  in  exile,  unacquainted  with  what 
they  love.  Desire  was  incandescent  within  her  breast. 
Desire  for  what  ?  It  would  have  been  some  relief  to  know. 


14  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

She  could  not,  like  Lise,  find  joy  and  forgetfulness  at  dance 
halls,  at  the  "movies,"  at  Slattery's  Riverside  Park  in 
summer,  in  "joy  rides"  with  the  Max  Wylies  of  Hampton. 
And  beside,  the  Max  Wylies  were  afraid  of  her.  If  at  times 
she  wished  for  wealth,  it  was  because  wealth  held  the  magic 
of  emancipation  from  surroundings  against  which  her  soul 
revolted.  Vividly  idealized  but  unconfided  was  the  memory 
of  a  seaside  village,  the  scene  of  one  of  the  brief  sojourns 
of  her  childhood,  where  the  air  was  fragrant  with  the  breath 
of  salt  marshes,  where. she  recalled,  through  the  vines  of  a 
porch,  a  shining  glimpse  of  the  sea  at  the  end  of  a  little 
street.  .  .  . 

Next  to  Pappas  Brothers  was  the  grey  wooden  building 
of  Mule  Spinners'  Hall,  that  elite  organization  of  skilled 
labour,  and  underneath  it  the  store  of  Johnny  Tiernan, 
its  windows  piled  up  with  stoves  and  stovepipes,  sheet  iron 
and  cooking  utensils.  Mr.  Tiernan,  like  the  Greeks,  was 
happy,  too :  unlike  the  Greeks,  he  never  appeared  to  be 
busy,  and  yet  he  throve.  He  was  very  proud  of  the  business 
in  which  he  had  invested  his  savings,  but  he  seemed  to  have 
other  affairs  lying  blithely  on  his  mind,  affairs  of  moment 
to  the  community,  as  the  frequent  presence  of  the  huge 
policemen,  aldermen,  and  other  important  looking  persons 
bore  witness.  He  hailed  by  name  Italians,  Greeks,  Bel 
gians,  Syrians,  and  "French";  he  hailed  Janet,  too,  with 
respectful  cheerfulness,  taking  off  his  hat.  He  possessed 
the  rare,  warm  vitality  that  is  irresistible.  A  native  of 
Hampton,  still  in  his  thirties,  his  sharp  little  nose  and  twink 
ling  blue  eyes  proclaimed  the  wisdom  that  is  born  and  not 
made ;  his  stiff  hair  had  a  twist  like  the  bristles  in  the  cleaning 
rod  of  a  gun. 

He  gave  Janet  the  odd  impression  that  he  understood 
her.  And  she  did  not  understand  herself ! 

By  the  time  she  reached  the  Common  the  winter  sun, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  15 

as  though  red  from  exertion,  had  begun  to  dispel  the  smoke 
and  heavy  morning  mists.  She  disliked  winter,  the  lumpy 
brown  turf  mildewed  by  the  frost,  but  one  day  she  was  moved 
by  a  quality,  hitherto  unsuspected,  in  the  delicate  tracery 
against  the  sky  made  by  the  slender  branches  of  the  great  elms 
and  maples.  She  halted  on  the  pavement,  her  eyes  raised, 
heedless  of  passers-by,  feeling  within  her  a  throb  of  the 
longing  that  could  be  so  oddly  and  unexpectedly  aroused. 

Her  way  lay  along  Faber  Street,  the  main  artery  of  Hamp 
ton,  a  wide  strip  of  asphalt  threaded  with  car  tracks,  lined 
on  both  sides  with  incongruous  edifices  indicative  of  a  rapid, 
undiscriminating,  and  artless  prosperity.  There  were  long 
stretches  of  "ten  foot"  buildings,  so  called  on  account  of 
the  single  story,  their  height  deceptively  enhanced  by  the 
superimposition  of  huge  and  gaudy  signs,  one  on  top  of 
another,  announcing  the  merits  of  "Stewart's  Amberine 
Ale,"  of  "Cooley's  Oats,  the  Digestible  Breakfast  Food,"  of 
graphophones  and  "spring  heeled"  shoes,  tobacco,  and 
naphtha  soaps.  "No,  We  don't  give  Trading  Stamps,  Our 
Products  are  Worth  all  You  Pay.19  These  "ten  foot"  stores 
were  the  repositories  of  pianos,  automobiles,  hardware,  and 
millinery,  and  interspersed  amongst  them  were  buildings 
of  various  heights;  The  Bagatelle,  where  Lfse  worked, 
the  Wilmot  Hotel,  office  buildings,  and  an  occasional  relic 
of  old  Hampton,  like  that  housing  the  Banner.  Here, 
during  those  months  when  the  sun  made  the  asphalt  soft, 
on  a  scaffolding  spanning  the  window  of  the  store,  might 
be  seen  a  perspiring  young  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves  chalking 
up  baseball  scores  for  the  benefit  of  a  crowd  below.  Then 
came  the  funereal,  liver-coloured,  long-windowed  Hinckley 
Block  (1872),  and  on  the  corner  a  modern,  glorified  drug 
store  thrusting  forth  plate  glass  bays  —  two  on  Faber 
Street  and  three  on  Stanley  —  filled  with  cameras  and  candy, 
hot  water  bags,  throat  sprays,  catarrh  and  kidney  cures, 


16  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

calendars,  fountain  pens,  stationery,  and  handy  alcohol 
lamps.  Flanking  the  sidewalks,  symbolizing  and  completing 
the  heterogeneous  and  bewildering  effect  of  the  street  were 
long  rows  of  heavy  hemlock  trunks,  unpainted  and  stripped 
of  bark,  with  crosstrees  bearing  webs  of  wires.  Trolley 
cars  rattled  along,  banging  their  gongs,  trucks  rumbled 
across  the  tracks,  automobiles  uttered  frenzied  screeches 
behind  startled  pedestrians.  Janet  was  always  galvanized 
into  alertness  here,  Faber  Street  being  no  place  to  dream. 
By  night  an  endless  procession  moved  up  one  sidewalk  and 
down  another,  staring  hypnotically  at  the  flash-in  and 
flash-out  electric  signs  that  kept  the  breakfast  foods  and 
ales,  the  safety  razors,  soaps,  and  soups  incessantly  in  the 
minds  of  a  fickle  public. 

Two  blocks  from  Faber  Street  was  the  North  Canal, 
with  a  granite-paved  roadway  between  it  and  the  monotonous 
row  of  company  boarding  houses.  Even  in  bright  weather 
Janet  felt  a  sense  of  oppression  here ;  on  dark,  misty  morn 
ings  the  stern,  huge  battlements  of  the  mills  lining  the 
farther  bank  were  menacing  indeed,  bristling  with  pro 
jections,  towers,  and  chimneys,  flanked  by  heavy  walls. 
Had  her  experience  included  Europe,  her  imagination 
might  have  seized  the  medieval  parallel,  —  the  arched 
bridges  flung  at  intervals  across  the  water,  lacking  only 
chains  to  raise  them  in  case  of  siege.  The  place  was  always 
ominously  suggestive  of  impending  strife.  Janet's  soul 
was  a  sensitive  instrument,  but  she  suffered  from  an  in 
ability  to  find  parallels,  and  thus  to  translate  her  impres 
sions  intellectually.  Her  feeling  about  the  mills  was  that 
they  were  at  once  fortress  and  prison,  and  she  a  slave  driven 
thither  day  after  day  by  an  all-compelling  power ;  as  much 
a  slave  as  those  who  trooped  in  through  the  gates  in  the  winter 
dawn,  and  wore  down,  four  times  a  day,  the  oak  treads  of 
the  circular  tower  stairs. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  17 

The  sound  of  the  looms  was  like  heavy  rain  hissing  on 
the  waters  of  the  canal. 


The  administrative  offices  of  a  giant  mill  such  as  the 
Chippering  in  Hampton  are  labyrinthine.  Janet  did  not 
enter  by  the  great  gates  her  father  kept,  but  walked  through 
an  open  courtyard  into  a  vestibule  where,  day  and  night,  a 
watchman  stood;  she  climbed  iron-shod  stairs,  passed  the 
doorway  leading  to  the  paymaster's  suite,  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
behind  the  grill,  of  numerous  young  men  settling  down 
at  those  mysterious  and  complicated  machines  that  kept  so 
unerring  a  record,  in  dollars  and  cents,  of  the  human  labour 
of  the  operatives.  There  were  other  suites  for  the  super 
intendents,  for  the  purchasing  agent ;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor,  on  the  south  side  of  the  mill,  she  entered  the  outer 
of  the  two  rooms  reserved  for  Mr.  Claude  Ditmar,  the  Agent 
and  general-in-chief  himself  of  this  vast  establishment. 
In  this  outer  office,  behind  the  rail  that  ran  the  length  of  it, 
Janet  worked;  from  the  window  where  her  typewriter 
stood  was  a  sheer  drop  of  eighty  feet  or  so  to  the  river,  which 
ran  here  swiftly  through  a  wide  canon  whose  sides  were 
formed  by  miles  and  miles  of  mills,  built  on  buttressed 
stone  walls  to  retain  the  banks.  The  prison-like  buildings 
on  the  farther  shore  were  also  of  colossal  size,  casting  their 
shadows  far  out  into  the  waters;  while  in  the  distance, 
up  and  down  the  stream,  could  be  seen  the  delicate  web 
of  the  Stanley  and  Warren  Street  bridges,  with  trolley  cars 
like  toys  gliding  over  them,  with  insect  pedestrians  creeping 
along  the  footpaths. 

Mr.   Ditmar's   immediate  staff  consisted  of  Mr.   Price, 

an  elderly  bachelor  of  tried  efficiency  whose  peculiar  genius 

lay  in  computation,  of  a  young  Mr.  C  aid  well  who,  during 

the  four  years  since  he  had  left  Harvard,  had  been  learning 

c 


18  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

the  textile  industry,  of  Miss  Ottway,  and  Janet.  Miss 
Ottway  was  the  agent's  private  stenographer,  a  strongly 
built,  capable  woman  with  immense  reserves  seemingly  in 
exhaustible.  She  had  a  deep,  masculine  voice,  not  unmusical, 
the  hint  of  a  masculine  moustache,  a  masculine  manner  of 
taking  to  any  job  that  came  to  hand.  Nerves  were  things 
unknown  to  her :  she  was  granite,  Janet  tempered  steel. 
Janet  was  the  second  stenographer,  and  performed,  besides, 
any  odd  tasks  that  might  be  assigned. 

There  were,  in  the  various  offices  of  the  superintendents, 
the  paymaster  and  purchasing  agent,  other  young  women 
stenographers  whose  companionship  Janet,  had  she  been 
differently  organized,  might  have  found  congenial,  but  some 
thing  in  her  refused  to  dissolve  to  their  proffered  friendship. 
She  had  but  one  friend,  —  if  Eda  Rawle,  who  worked  in 
a  bank,  and  whom  she  had  met  at  a  lunch  counter  by  accident, 
may  be  called  so.  As  has  been  admirably  said  in  another 
language,  one  kisses,  the  other  offers  a  cheek :  Janet  offered 
the  cheek.  All  unconsciously  she  sought  a  relationship 
rarely  to  be  found  in  banks  and  business  offices ;  would  yield 
herself  to  none  other.  The  young  women  stenographers 
in  the  Chippering  Mill,  respectable,  industrious  girls,  were 
attracted  by  a  certain  indefinable  quality,  but  finding  they 
made  no  progress  in  their  advances,  presently  desisted : 
they  were  somewhat  afraid  of  her ;  as  one  of  them  remarked, 
"You  always  knew  she  was  there."  Miss  Lottie  Meyers, 
who  worked  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Orcutt,  the  superintendent 
across  the  hall,  experienced  a  brief  infatuation  that  turned 
to  hate.  She  chewed  gum  incessantly,  Janet  found  her 
cheap  perfume  insupportable;  Miss  Meyers,  for  her  part, 
declared  that  Janet  was  "queer"  and  "stuck  up,"  thought 
herself  better  than  the  rest  of  them.  Lottie  Meyers  was  the 
leader  of  a  group  of  four  or  five  which  gathered  in  the  hall 
way  at  the  end  of  the  noon  hour  to  enter  animatedly  into  a 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  19 

discussion  of  waists,  hats,  and  lingerie,  to  ogle  and  exchange 
persiflages  with  the  young  men  of  the  paymaster's  corps,  to 
giggle,  to  relate,  sotto  voce,  certain  stories  that  ended  in 
variably  in  hysterical  laughter.  Janet  detested  these  con 
versations.  And  the  sex  question,  subtly  suggested  if  not 
openly  dealt  with,  to  her  was  a  mystery  over  which  she 
did  not  dare  to  ponder,  terrible,  yet  too  sacred  to  be  de 
graded.  Her  feelings,  concealed  under  an  exterior  of  self- 
possession,  deceptive  to  the  casual  observer,  sometimes 
became  molten,  and  she  was  frightened  by  a  passion  that 
made  her  tremble  —  a  passion  by  no  means  always  con 
sciously  identified  with  men,  embodying  all  the  fierce  un 
expressed  and  unsatisfied  desires  of  her  life. 

These  emotions,  often  suggested  by  some  hint  of  beauty, 
as  of  the  sun  glinting  on  the  river  on  a  bright  blue  day, 
had  a  sudden  way  of  possessing  her,  and  the  longing  they 
induced  was  pain.  Longing  for  what?  For  some  un- 
imagined  existence  where  beauty  dwelt,  and  light,  where 
the  ecstasy  induced  by  these  was  neither  moiled  nor  degraded ; 
where  shame,  as  now,  might  not  assail  her.  Why  should 
she  feel  her  body  hot  with  shame,  her  cheeks  afire?  At 
such  moments  she  would  turn  to  the  typewriter,  her  fingers 
striking  the  keys  with  amazing  rapidity,  with  extraordinary 
accuracy  and  force,  —  force  vaguely  disturbing  to  Mr. 
Claude  Ditmar  as  he  entered  the  office  one  morning  and 
involuntarily  paused  to  watch  her.  She  was  unaware  of 
his  gaze,  but  her  colour  was  like  a  crimson  signal  that  flashed 
to  him  and  was  gone.  Why  had  he  never  noticed  her  before  ? 
All  these  months,  —  for  more  than  a  year,  perhaps,  —  she 
had  been  in  his  office,  and  he  had  not  so  much  as  looked  at 
her  twice.  The  unguessed  answer  was  that  he  had  never 
surprised  her  in  a  vivid  moment.  He  had  a  flair  for  women, 
though  he  had  never  encountered  any  possessing  the  higher 
values,  and  it  was  characteristic  of  the  plane  of  his  mental 


20  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

processes  that  this  one  should  remind  him  now  of  a  dark, 
lithe  panther,  tensely  strung,  capable  of  fierceness.  The 
pain  of  having  her  scratch  him  would  be  delectable. 

When  he  measured  her  it  was  to  discover  that  she  was 
not  so  little,  and  the  shoulder-curve  of  her  uplifted  arms, 
as  her  fingers  played  over  the  keys,  seemed  to  belie  that 
apparent  slimness.  And  had  he  not  been  unacquainted 
with  the  subtleties  of  the  French  mind  and  language,  he 
might  have  classed  her  as  a  fausse  maigre.  Her  head  was 
small,  her  hair  like  a  dark,  blurred  shadow  clinging  round  it. 
He  wanted  to  examine  her  hair,  to  see  whether  it  would  not 
betray,  at  closer  range,  an  imperceptible  wave,  —  but  not 
daring  to  linger  he  went  into  his  office,  closed  the  door,  and 
sat  down  with  a  sensation  akin  to  weakness,  somewhat 
appalled  by  his  discovery,  considerably  amazed  at  his 
previous  stupidity.  He  had  thought  of  Janet  —  when  she 
had  entered  his  mind  at  all  —  as  unobtrusive,  demure ;  now 
he  recognized  this  demureness  as  repression.  Her  qualities 
needed  illumination,  and  he,  Claude  Ditmar,  had  seen  them 
struck  with  fire.  He  wondered  whether  any  other  man 
had  been  as  fortunate. 

Later  in  the  morning,  quite  casually,  he  made  inquiries 
of  Miss  Ottwray,  who  liked  Janet  and  was  willing  to  do  her 
a  good  turn. 

"Why,  she's  a  clever  girl,  Mr.  Ditmar,  a  good  stenog 
rapher,  and  conscientious  in  her  work.  She's  very  quick, 
too." 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that,"  Ditmar  replied,  who  was  quite 
willing  to  have  it  thought  that  his  inquiry  was  concerned 
with  Janet's  aptitude  for  business. 

"She  keeps  to  herself  and  minds  her  own  affairs.  You 
can  see  she  comes  of  good  stock."  Miss  Ottway  herself  was 
proud  of  her  New  England  blood.  "Her  father,  you  know, 
is  the  gatekeeper  down  there.  He's  been  unfortunate." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  21 

"You  don't  say  — I  didn't  connect  her  with  him.  Fine 
looking  old  man.  A  friend  of  mine  who  recommended  him 
told  me  he'd  seen  better  days.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  II 


IN  spite  of  the  surprising  discovery  in  his  office  of  a  young 
woman  of  such  a  disquieting,  galvanic  quality,  it  must  not 
be  supposed  that  Mr.  Claude  Ditmar  intended  to  infringe 
upon  a  fixed  principle.  He  had  principles.  For  him,  as 
for  the  patriarchs  and  householders  of  Israel,  the  seventh 
commandment  was  only  relative,  yet  hitherto  he  had  held 
rigidly  to  that  relativity,  laying  down  the  sound  doctrine 
that  women  and  business  would  not  mix  :  or,  as  he  put  it  to 
his  intimates,  no  sensible  man  would  fool  with  a  girl  in  his 
office.  Hence  it  may  be  implied  that  Mr.  Ditmar's  expe 
riences  with  the  opposite  sex  had  been  on  a  property  basis. 
He  was  one  of  those  busy  and  successful  persons  who  had 
never  appreciated  or  acquired  the  art  of  quasi-platonic 
amenities,  whose  idea  of  a  good  time  was  limited  to  discreet 
excursions  with  cronies,  likewise  busy  and  successful  persons 
who,  by  reason  of  having  married  early  and  unwisely,  are 
strangers  to  the  delights  of  that  higher  social  intercourse 
chronicled  in  novels  and  the  public  prints.  If  one  may  con 
veniently  overlook  the  joys  of  a  companionship  of  the  soul, 
it  is  quite  as  possible  to  have  a  taste  in  women  as  in  champagne 
or  cigars.  Mr.  Ditmar  preferred  blondes,  and  he  liked  them 
rather  stout,  a  predilection  that  had  led  him  into  matrimony 
with  a  lady  of  this  description :  a  somewhat  sticky,  candy- 
eating  lady  with  a  mania  for  card  parties,  who  undoubtedly 
would  have  dyed  her  hair  if  she  had  lived.  He  was  not 
inconsolable,  but  he  had  had  enough  of  marriage  to  learn 

22 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  23 

that  it  demands  a  somewhat  exorbitant  price  for  joys  other 
wise  more  reasonably  to  be  obtained. 

He  was  left  a  widower  with  two  children,  a  girl  of  thirteen 
and  a  boy  of  twelve,  both  somewhat  large  for  their  ages. 
Amy  attended  the  only  private  institution  for  the  instruc 
tion  of  her  sex  of  which  Hampton  could  boast;  George 
continued  at  a  public  school.  The  late  Mrs.  Ditmar  for 
some  years  before  her  demise  had  begun  to  give  evidence  of 
certain  restless  aspirations  to  which  American  ladies  of 
her  type  and  situation  seem  peculiarly  liable,  and  with  a 
view  to  their  ultimate  realization  she  had  inaugurated  a 
Jericho-like  campaign.  Death  had  released  Ditmar  from  its 
increasing  pressure.  For  his  wdfe  had  possessed  that  ad 
mirable  substitute  for  character,  persistence,  had  been 
expert  in  the  use  of  importunity,  often  an  efficient  weapon 
in  the  hands  of  the  female  economically  dependent.  The 
daughter  of  a  defunct  cashier  of  the  Hampton  National 
Bank,  when  she  had  married  Ditmar,  then  one  of  the  super 
intendents  of  the  Chippering  and  already  a  marked  man, 
she  had  deemed  herself  fortunate  among  women,  looking 
forward  to  a  life  of  ease  and  idleness  and  candy  in  great 
abundance,  —  a  dream  temporarily  shattered  by  the  un 
foreseen  discomfort  of  bringing  two  children  into  the  world, 
with  an  interval  of  scarcely  a  year  between  them.  Her 
parents  from  an  excess  of  native  modesty  having  failed  to 
enlighten  her  on  this  subject,  her  feelings  were  those  of 
outraged  astonishment,  and  she  was  quite  determined  not 
to  repeat  the  experience  a  third  time.  Knowledge  thus 
belatedly  acquired,  for  a  while  she  abandoned  herself  to  the 
satisfaction  afforded  by  the  ability  to  take  a  commanding 
position  in  Hampton  society,  gradually  to  become  aware  of 
the  need  of  a  more  commodious  residence.  In  a  certain 
kind  of  intuition  she  was  rich.  Her  husband  had  meanwhile 
become  Agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill,  and  she  strongly 


24  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

suspected  that  his  prudent  reticence  on  the  state  of  his 
finances  was  the  best  indication  of  an  increasing  prosperity. 
He  had  indeed  made  money,  been  given  many  opportunities 
for  profitable  investments;  but  the  argument  for  social 
pre-eminence  did  not  appeal  to  him :  tears  and  reproaches, 
recriminations,  when  frequently  applied,  succeeded  better; 
like  many  married  men,  what  he  most  desired  was  to  be 
let  alone ;  but  in  some  unaccountable  way  she  had  come  to 
suspect  that  his  preference  for  blondes  was  of  a  more  liberal 
nature  than  at  first,  in  her  innocence,  she  had  realized. 
She  was  jealous,  too,  of  his  cronies,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
these  gentlemen,  when  they  met  her,  treated  her  with  an 
elaborate  politeness;  and  she  accused  him  with  entire 
justice  of  being  more  intimate  with  them  than  with  her, 
with  whom  he  was  united  in  holy  bonds.  The  inevitable 
result  of  these  tactics  was  the  modern  mansion  in  the  upper 
part  of  Warren  Street,  known  as  the  "residential"  district. 
Built  on  a  wide  lot,  with  a  garage  on  one  side  to  the  rear, 
with  a  cement  driveway  divided  into  squares,  and  a  wall  of 
democratic  height  separating  its  lawn  from  the  sidewalk, 
the  house  may  for  the  present  be  better  imagined  than  de 
scribed. 

A  pious  chronicler  of  a  more  orthodox  age  would  doubt 
less  have  deemed  it  a  judgment  that  Cora  Ditmar  survived 
but  two  years  to  enjoy  the  glories  of  the  Warren  Street 
house.  For  a  while  her  husband  indulged  in  a  foolish  op 
timism,  only  to  learn  that  the  habit  of  matrimonial  black 
mail,  once  acquired,  is  not  easily  shed.  Scarcely  had  he 
settled  down  to  the  belief  that  by  the  gratification  of  her 
supreme  desire  he  had  achieved  comparative  peace,  than  he 
began  to  suspect  her  native  self-confidence  of  cherishing 
visions  of  a  career  contemplating  nothing  less  than  the 
eventual  abandonment  of  Hampton  itself  as  a  field  too 
limited  for  her  social  talents  and  his  business  ability  and 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  25 

bank  account  —  at  which  she  was  pleased  to  hint.  Hamp 
ton  suited  Ditmar,  his  passion  was  the  Chippering  Mill ;  and 
he  was  in  process  of  steeling  himself  to  resist,  whatever 
the  costs,  this  preposterous  plan  when  he  was  mercifully 
released  by  death.  Her  intention  of  sending  the  children 
away  to  acquire  a  culture  and  finish  Hampton  did  not  afford, 
—  George  to  Silliston  Academy,  Amy  to  a  fashionable 
boarding  school,  —  he  had  not  opposed,  yet  he  did  not 
take  the  idea  with  sufficient  seriousness  to  carry  it  out. 
The  children  remained  at  home,  more  or  less  —  increas 
ingly  less  —  in  the  charge  of  an  elderly  woman  who  acted 
as  housekeeper. 

Ditmar  had  miraculously  regained  his  freedom.  And 
now,  when  he  made  trips  to  New  York  and  Boston,  com 
bining  business  with  pleasure,  there  were  no  questions  asked, 
no  troublesome  fictions  to  be  composed.  More  frequently 
he  was  in  Boston,  where  he  belonged  to  a  large  and  comfort 
able  club,  not  too  exacting  in  regard  to  membership,  and  here 
he  met  his  cronies  and  sometimes  planned  excursions  with 
them,  automobile  trips  in  summer  to  the  White  Mountains 
or  choice  little  resorts  to  spend  Sundays  and  holidays,  gen 
erally  taking  with  them  a  case  of  champagne  and  several 
bags  of  golf  sticks.  He  was  fond  of  shooting,  and  belonged 
to  a  duck  club  on  the  Cape,  where  poker  and  bridge  were 
not  tabooed.  To  his  intimates  he  was  known  as  "Dit." 
Nor  is  it  surprising  that  his  attitude  toward  women  had 
become  in  general  one  of  resentment;  matrimony  he  now 
regarded  as  unmitigated  folly.  At  five  and  forty  he  was  a 
vital,  dominating,  dust-coloured  man  six  feet  and  half  an 
inch  in  height,  weighing  a  hundred  and  ninety  pounds,  and 
thus  a  trifle  fleshy.  When  relaxed,  and  in  congenial  com 
pany,  he  looked  rather  boyish,  an  aspect  characteristic  of 
many  American  business  men  of  to-day.  His  head  was  large, 
he  wore  his  hair  short,  his  features  also  proclaimed  him  as 


26  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

belonging  to  a  modern  American  type  in  that  they  were  not 
clear-cut,  but  rather  indefinable;  a  bristling,  short-cropped 
moustache  gave  him  a  certain  efficient,  military  look  which, 
when  introduced  to  strangers  as  "Colonel,"  was  apt  to  de 
ceive  them  into  thinking  him  an  army  officer.  The  title 
he  had  once  received  as  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  governor 
of  the  state,  and  was  a  tribute  to  a  gregariousness  and 
political  influence  rather  than  to  a  genius  for  the  art  of  war. 
Ex  officio,  as  the  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill  and  a  man  of 
substance  to  boot,  he  was  "in"  politics,  hail  fellow  well  met 
with  and  an  individual  to  be  taken  into  account  by  politi 
cians  from  the  governor  and  member  of  congress  down.  He 
was  efficient,  of  course;  he  had  efficient  hands  and  shrewd, 
efficient  eyes,  and  the  military  impression  was  deepened  by 
his  manner  of  dealing  with  people,  his  conversation  being 
yea,  yea  and  nay,  nay,  —  save  with  his  cronies  and  those 
of  the  other  sex  from  whom  he  had  something  to  gain.  His 
clothes  always  looked  new,  of  pronounced  patterns  and  light 
colours  set  aside  for  him  by  an  obsequious  tailor  in  Boston. 
If  a  human  being  in  such  an  enviable  position  as  that  of' 
agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill  can  be  regarded  as  property,  it 
might  be  said  that  Mr.  Claude  Ditmar  belonged  to  the  Chip- 
perings  of  Boston,  a  family  still  owning  a  controlling  in 
terest  in  the  company.  His  loyalty  to  them  and  to  the  mill 
he  so  ably  conducted  was  the  great  loyalty  of  his  life.  For 
Ditmar,  a  Chippering  could  do  no  wrong.  It  had  been  the 
keen  eye  of  Mr.  Stephen  Chippering  that  first  had  marked 
him,  questioned  him,  recognized  his  ability,  and  from  the 
moment  of  that  encounter  his  advance  had  been  rapid. 
When  old  Stephen  had  been  called  to  his  fathers,  Ditmar's 
allegiance  was  automatically,  as  it  were,  transferred  to  the 
two  sons,  George  and  Worthington,  already  members  of  the 
board  of  directors.  Sometimes  Ditmar  called  on  them  at 
their  homes,  which  stood  overlooking  the  waters  of  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  27 

Charles  River  Basin.  The  attitude  toward  him  of  the  Chip- 
perings  and  their  wives  was  one  of  an  interesting  adjustment 
of  feudalism  to  democracy.  They  were  fond  of  him,  grateful 
to  him,  treating  him  with  a  frank  camaraderie  that  had  in 
it  not  the  slightest  touch  of  condescension,  but  Ditmar 
would  have  been  the  first  to  recognize  that  there  were  limits 
to  the  intimacy.  They  did  not,  for  instance  —  no  doubt 
out  of  consideration  —  invite  him  to  their  dinner  parties 
or  take  him  to  their  club,  which  was  not  the  same  as  that  to 
which  he  himself  belonged.  He  felt  no  animus.  Nor 
would  he,  surprising  though  it  may  seem,  have  changed 
places  with  the  Chipperings.  At  an  early  age,  and  quite 
unconsciously,  he  had  accepted  property  as  the  ruling  power 
of  the  universe,  and  when  family  was  added  thereto  the  com 
bination  was  nothing  less  than  divine. 


There  were  times,  especially  during  the  long  winters, 
when  life  became  almost  unbearable  for  Janet,  and  she  was 
seized  by  a  desire  to  run  away  from  Fillmore  Street,  from 
the  mills,  from  Hampton  itself.  Only  she  did  not  know 
where  to  go,  or  how  to  get  away.  She  was  convinced  of  the 
existence  in  the  world  of  delightful  spots  where  might  be 
found  congenial  people  with  whom  it  would  be  a  joy  to  talk. 
Fillmore  Street,  certainly,  did  not  contain  any  such.  The 
office  was  not  so  bad.  It  is  true  that  in  the  mornings,  as 
she  entered  West  Street,  the  sight  of  the  dark  facade  of  the 
fortress-like  structure,  emblematic  of  the  captivity  in  which 
she  passed  her  days,  rarely  failed  to  arouse  in  her  sensations 
of  oppression  and  revolt ;  but  here,  at  least,  she  discovered 
an  outlet  for  her  energies ;  she  was  often  too  busy  to  reflect, 
and  at  odd  moments  she  could  find  a  certain  solace  and  com 
panionship  in  the  river,  so  intent,  so  purposeful,  so  beautiful, 
so  undisturbed  by  the  inconcinnity,  the  clatter  and  confusion 


28  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

of  Hampton  as  it  flowed  serenely  under  the  bridges  and  be 
tween  the  mills  toward  the  sea.     Toward  the  sea  ! 

It  was  when,  at  night,  she  went  back  to  Fillmore  Street  — 
when  she  thought  of  the  monotony,  yes,  and  the  sordidness  of 
home,  when  she  let  herself  in  at  the  door  and  climbed  the 
dark  and  narrow  stairway,  that  her  feet  grew  leaden.  In 
spite  of  the  fact  that  Hannah  was  a  good  housekeeper  and 
prided  herself  on  cleanliness,  the  tiny  flat  reeked  with  the 
smell  of  cooking,  and  Janet,  from  the  upper  hall,  had  a 
glimpse  of  a  thin,  angular  woman  with  a  scrawny  neck,  with 
scant  grey  hair  tightly  drawn  into  a  knot,  in  a  gingham  apron 
covering  an  old  dress  bending  over  the  kitchen  stove.  And 
occasionally,  despite  a  resentment  that  fate  should  have 
dealt  thus  inconsiderately  with  the  family,  Janet  felt  pity 
welling  within  her.  After  supper,  when  Lise  had  departed 
with  her  best  young  man,  Hannah  would  occasionally, 
though  grudgingly,  permit  Janet  to  help  her  with  the  dishes. 
"You  work  all  day,  you  have  a  right  to  rest." 
"  But  I  don't  want  to  rest,"  Janet  would  declare,  and  rub 
the  dishes  the  harder.  With  the  spirit  underlying  this 
protest,  Hannah  sympathized.  Mother  and  daughter  were 
alike  in  that  both  were  inarticulate,  but  Janet  had  a  secret 
contempt  for  Hannah's  uncomplaining  stoicism.  She  loved 
her  mother,  in  a  way,  especially  at  certain  times,  —  though 
she  often  wondered  why  she  was  unable  to  realize  more 
fully  the  filial  affection  of  tradition;  but  in  moments  of 
softening,  such  as  these,  she  was  filled  with  rage  at  the 
thought  of  any  woman  endowed  with  energy  permitting 
herself  to  be  overtaken  and  overwhelmed  by  such  a  fate 
as  Hannah's :  divorce,  desertion,  anything,  she  thought, 
would  have  been  better  —  anything  but  to  be  cheated  out  of 
life.  Feeling  the  fires  of  rebellion  burning  hotly  within  her, 
—  rebellion  against  environment  and  driving  necessity  — 
she  would  glance  at  her  mother  and  ask  herself  whether  it 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  29 

were  possible  that  Hannah  had  ever  known  longings,  had 
ever  been  wrung  by  inexpressible  desires,  —  desires  in 
which  the  undiscovered  spiritual  was  so  alarmingly  com 
pounded  with  the  undiscovered  physical.  She  would  have 
died  rather  than  speak  to  Hannah  of  these  unfulfilled  ex 
periences,  and  the  mere  thought  of  confiding  them  to  any 
person  appalled  her.  Even  if  there  existed  some  wonderful, 
understanding  being  to  whom  she  might  be  able  thus  to 
empty  her  soul,  the  thought  of  the  ecstasy  of  that  kenosis 
was  too  troubling  to  be  dwelt  upon. 

She  had  tried  reading,  with  unfortunate  results,  —  per 
haps  because  no  Virgil  had  as  yet  appeared  to  guide  her 
through  the  mysteries  of  that  realm.  Her  schooling  had 
failed  to  instil  into  her  a  discriminating  taste  for  literature ; 
and  when,  on  occasions,  she  had  entered  the  Public  Library 
opposite  the  Common  it  had  been  to  stare  hopelessly  at  rows 
of  books  whose  authors  and  titles  offered  no  clew  to  their 
contents.  Her  few  choices  had  not  been  happy,  they  had 
failed  to  interest  and  thrill.  ... 

Of  the  Biunpus  family  Lise  alone  found  refuge,  distrac 
tion,  and  excitement  in  the  vulgar  modern  world  by  which 
they  were  surrounded,  and  of  whose  heedlessness  and  re- 
morselessness  they  were  the  victims.  Lise  went  out  into 
it,  became  a  part  of  it,  returning  only  to  sleep  and  eat,  — 
a  tendency  Hannah  found  unaccountable,  and  against  which 
even  her  stoicism  was  not  wholly  proof.  Scarce  an  evening 
went  by  without  an  expression  of  uneasiness  from  Hannah. 

"She  didn't  happen  to  mention  where  she  was  going, 
did  she,  Janet?"  Hannah  would  query,  when  she  had 
finished  her  work  and  put  on  her  spectacles  to  read  the 
Banner. 

"  To  the  movies,  I  suppose,"  Janet  would  reply.  Although 
well  aware  that  her  sister  indulged  in  other  distractions, 
she  thought  it  useless  to  add  to  Hannah's  disquietude.  And 


30  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

if  she  had  little  patience  with  Lise,  she  had  less  with  the  help 
less  attitude  of  her  parents. 

"Well,"  Hannah  would  add,  "I  never  can  get  used  to 
her  going  out  nights  the  way  she  does,  and  with  young  men 
and  women  I  don't  know  anything  about.  I  wasn't  brought 
up  that  way.  But  as  long  as  she's  got  to  work  for  a  living 
I  guess  there's  no  help  for  it." 

And  she  would  glance  at  Edward.  It  was  obviously 
due  to  his  inability  adequately  to  cope  with  modern  con 
ditions  that  his  daughters  were  forced  to  toil,  but  this  was 
the  nearest  she  ever  came  to  reproaching  him.  If  he  heard, 
he  acquiesced  humbly,  and  in  silence :  more  often  than 
not  he  was  oblivious,  buried  in  the  mazes  of  the  Bumpus 
family  history,  his  papers  spread  out  on  the  red  cloth  of 
the  dining-room  table,  under  the  lamp.  Sometimes  in  his 
simplicity  and  with  the  enthusiasm  that  demands  listeners 
he  would  read  aloud  to  them  a  letter,  recently  received 
from  a  distant  kinsman,  an  Alpheus  Bumpus,  let  us  say, 
who  had  migrated  to  Calfornia  in  search  of  wealth  and  fame, 
and  who  had  found  neither.  In  spite  of  age  and  misfortunes, 
the  liberal  attitude  of  these  western  members  of  the  family 
was  always  a  matter  of  perplexity  to  Edward. 

"He  tells  me  they're  going  to  give  women  the  ballot,  — 
doesn't  appear  to  be  much  concerned  about  his  own  women 
folks  going  to  the  polls." 

"Why  shouldn't  they,  if  they  want  to?"  Janet  would 
exclaim,  though  she  had  given  little  thought  to  the  question. 

Edward  would  mildly  ignore  this  challenge. 

"He  has  a  house  on  what  they  call  Russian  Hill,  and  he 
can  watch  the  vessels  as  they  come  in  from  Japan,"  he 
would  continue  in  his  precise  voice,  emphasizing  admirably 
the  last  syllables  of  the  words  "Russian,"  "vessels,"  and 
"Japan."  "Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  the  letter?" 

To  do  Hannah  justice,  although  she  was  quite  incapable  of 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  31 

sharing  his  passion,  she  frequently  feigned  an  interest,  took 
the  letter,  presently  handing  it  on  to  Janet  who,  in  decipher 
ing  Alpheus's  trembling  calligraphy,  pondered  over  his  mani 
fold  woes.  Alpheus's  son,  who  had  had  a  good  position  in 
a  sporting  goods  establishment  on  Market  Street,  was  sick 
and  in  danger  of  losing  it,  the  son's  wife  expecting  an  addi 
tion  to  the  family,  the  house  on  Russian  Hill  mortgaged. 
Alpheus,  a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  had  been  for  many 
years  preparing  his  reminiscences,  but  the  newspapers 
nowadays  seemed  to  care  nothing  for  matters  of  solid  worth, 
and  so  far  had  refused  to  publish  them.  .  .  .  Janet,  as  she 
read,  reflected  that  these  letters  invariably  had  to  relate 
tales  of  failures,  of  disappointed  hopes;  she  wondered  at 
her  father's  perennial  interest  in  failures,  —  provided  they 
were  those  of  his  family ;  and  the  next  evening,  as  he  wrote 
painfully  on  his  ruled  paper,  she  knew  that  he  in  turn  was 
pouring  out  his  soul  to  Alpheus,  recounting,  with  an  emotion 
by  no  means  unpleasurable,  to  this  sympathetic  but  remote 
relative  the  story  of  his  own  failure ! 


If  the  city  of  Hampton  was  emblematic  of  our  modern 
world  in  which  haphazardness  has  replaced  order,  Fillmore 
Street  may  be  likened  to  a  back  eddy  of  the  muddy  and 
troubled  waters,  in  which  all  sorts  of  flotsam  and  jetsam 
had  collected.  Or,  to  find  perhaps  an  even  more  striking 
illustration  of  the  process  that  made  Hampton  in  general 
and  Fillmore  Street  in  particular,  one  had  only  to  take  the 
trolley  to  Glendale,  the  Italian  settlement  on  the  road  lead 
ing  to  the  old  New  England  village  of  Shrewsbury.  Janet 
sometimes  walked  there,  alone  or  with  her  friend  Eda  Rawle. 
Disintegration  itself  —  in  a  paradoxically  pathetic  attempt 
at  reconstruction  —  had  built  Glendale.  Human  hands, 
Italian  hands.  Nor,  'surprising  though  it  may  seem.,  were 


32  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

these  descendants  of  the  people  of  the  Renaissance  in  the 
least  offended  by  their  handiwork.  When  the  southern 
European  migration  had  begun  and  real  estate  became 
valuable,  one  by  one  the  more  decorous  edifices  of  the  old 
American  order  had  been  torn  down  and  carried  piecemeal 
by  sons  of  Italy  to  the  bare  hills  of  Glendale,  there  to  enter 
into  new  combinations  representing,  to  an  eye  craving  har 
mony,  the  last  word  of  a  chaos,  of  a  mental  indigestion,  of 
a  colour  scheme  crying  aloud  to  heaven  for  retribution. 
Standing  alone  and  bare  amidst  its  truck  gardens,  hideous, 
extreme,  though  typical  of  the  entire  settlement,  composed 
of  fragments  ripped  from  once-appropriate  settings,  is  a 
house  with  a  tiny  body  painted  strawberry-red,  with  scroll 
work  shutters  a  tender  green;  surmounting  the  structure 
and  almost  equalling  it  in  size  is  a  sky-blue  cupola,  once  the 
white  crown  of  the  Sutter  mansion,  the  pride  of  old  Hampton. 
The  walls  of  this  dwelling  were  wrested  from  the  sides  of 
Mackey's  Tavern,  while  the  shutters  for  many  years  adorned 
the  parsonage  of  the  old  First  Church.  Similarly,  in  Hamp 
ton  and  in  Fillmore  Street,  lived  in  enforced  neighbourliness 
human  fragments  once  having  their  places  in  crystallized 
communities  where  existence  had  been  regarded  as  solved. 
Here  there  was  but  one  order,  —  if  such  it  may  be  called,  — 
one  relationship,  direct  or  indirect,  one  necessity  claiming 
them  all  —  the  mills. 

Like  the  boards  forming  the  walls  of  the  shacks  at  Glen- 
dale,  these  human  planks  torn  from  an  earlier  social  struc 
ture  were  likewise  warped,  which  is  to  say  they  were  dom 
inated  by  obsessions.  Edward's  was  the  Bumpus  family; 
and  Chris  Auermann,  who  lived  in  the  flat  below,  was  con 
vinced  that  the  history  of  mankind  is  a  deplorable  record 
of  havoc  caused  by  women.  Perhaps  he  was  right,  but  the 
conviction  was  none  the  less  an  obsession.  He  came  from 
a  little  village  near  Wittenburg  that  has  scarcely  changed 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  33 

since  Luther's  time.  Like  most  residents  of  Hampton 
who  did  not  work  in  the  mills,  he  ministered  to  those  who 
did,  or  to  those  who  sold  merchandise  to  the  workers,  cutting 
their  hair  in  his  barber  shop  on  Faber  Street. 

The  Bumpuses,  save  Lise,  clinging  to  a  native  individual 
ism  and  pride,  preferred  isolation  to  companionship  with 
the  other  pieces  of  driftwood  by  w^hich  they  were  surrounded, 
and  with  which  the  summer  season  compelled  a  certain 
enforced  contact.  When  the  heat  in  the  little  dining-room 
grew  unbearable,  they  were  driven  to  take  refuge  on  the 
front  steps  shared  in  common  with  the  household  of  the 
barber.  It  is  true  that  the  barber's  wife  was  a  mild  hausfrau 
who  had  little  to  say,  and  that  their  lodgers,  two  young 
Germans  who  worked  in  the  mills,  spent  most  of  their  even 
ings  at  a  bowling  club;  but  Auermann  himself,  exhaling  a 
strong  odour  of  bay  rum,  would  arrive  promptly  at  quarter 
past  eight,  take  off  his  coat,  and  thus,  as  it  were  stripped 
for  action,  would  turn  upon  the  defenceless  Edward. 

"Vill  you  mention  one  great  man  —  yoost  one  —  who  is 
not  greater  if  the  vimmen  leave  him  alone?"  he  would  de 
mand.  "Is  it  Anthony,  the  conqueror  of  Egypt  and  the 
East?  I  vill  show  you  Cleopatra.  L^nd  Burns,  und  Napo 
leon,  the  greatest  man  what  ever  lived  —  vimmen  again. 
I  tell  you  there  is  no  Elba,  no  St.  Helena  if  it  is  not- for  the 
vimmen.  Und  vat  vill  you  say  of  Goethe?" 

Poor  Edward  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  of  Goethe. 

"He  is  great,  I  grant  you/'  Chris  would  admit,  "but 
vat  is  he  if  the  vimmen  leave  him  alone  ?  Divine  — 
yoost  that."  And  he  would  proceed  to  cite  endless  examples 
of  generals  and  statesmen  whose  wives  or  mistresses  had 
been  their  bane.  Futile  Edward's  attempts  to  shift  the 
conversation  to  the  subject  of  his  own  obsession;  the  Ger 
man  was  by  far  the  more  aggressive,  he  would  have  none  of 
it.  Perhaps  if  Edward  had  been  willing  to  concede  that  the 


34  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Bumpuses  had  been  brought  to  their  present  lowly  estate 
by  the  sinister  agency  of  the  fair  sex  Chris  might  condi 
tionally  have  accepted  the  theme.  Hannah,  contemptuously 
waving  a  tattered  palm  leaf  fan,  was  silent;  but  on  one 
occasion  Janet  took  away  the  barber's  breath  by  suddenly 
observing :  — 

"You  never  seem  to  think  of  the  women  whose  lives  are 
ruined  by  men,  Mr.  Auermann." 

It  was  unheard-of,  this  invasion  of  a  man's  argument 
by  a  woman,  and  by  a  young  woman  at  that.  He  glared 
at  her  through  his  spectacles,  took  them  off,  wiped  them, 
replaced  them,  and  glared  at  her  again.  He  did  not  like 
Janet;  she  was  capable  of  what  may  be  called  a  speaking 
silence,  and  he  had  never  been  wholly  unaware  of  her  dis 
approval  and  ridicule.  Perhaps  he  recognized  in  her, 
instinctively,  the  potential  qualities  of  that  emerging  modern 
woman  who  to  him  was  anathema. 

"It  is  somethings  I  don't  think  about/'  he  said. 

He  was  a  wizened  little  man  with  faience-blue  eyes,  and  sat 
habitually  hunched  up  with  his  hands  folded  across  his  shins. 

Nam  fuit  ante  Helenam  —  as  Darwin  quotes.  Toward 
all  the  masculine  residents  of  Fillmore  Street,  save  one, 
the  barber's  attitude  was  one  of  unconcealed  scorn  for  an 
inability  to  recognize  female  perfidy.  With  Johnny  Tier- 
nan  alone  he  refused  to  enter  the  lists.  When  the  popular 
proprietor  of  the  tin  shop  came  sauntering  along  the  side 
walk  with  nose  uptilted,  waving  genial  greetings  to  the 
various  groups  on  the  steps,  Chris  Auermann's  expression 
would  suddenly  change  to  one  of  fatuous  playfulness. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  about  giving  the  girls  the  vote,  Chris  ? ' ' 
Johnny  would  innocently  inquire,  winking  at  Janet,  in 
variably  running  his  hand  through  the  wiry  red  hair  that 
resumed  its  corkscrew  twist  as  soon  as  he  released  it.  And 
Chris  would  as  invariably  reply :  — 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  35 

"  You  have  the  dandruffs  —  yes  ?  You  come  to  my  shop, 
I  give  you  somethings.  ..." 

Sometimes  the  barber,  in  search  of  a  more  aggressive 
adversary  than  Edward,  would  pay  visits,  when  as  likely 
as  not  another  neighbour  with  profound  convictions  and  a 
craving  for  proselytes  would  swoop  down  on  the  defenceless 
Bumpuses :  Joe  Shivers,  for  instance,  who  lived  in  one  of 
the  tenements  above  the  cleaning  and  dyeing  establishment 
kept  by  the  Pappas  Bros.,  and  known  as  "The  Gentleman." 
In  the  daytime  Mr.  Shivers  was  a  model  of  acquiescence 
in  a  system  he  would  have  designated  as  one  of  industrial 
feudalism,  his  duty  being  to  examine  the  rolls  of  cloth  as  they 
came  from  the  looms  of  the  Arundel  Mill,  in  case  of  imper 
fections  handing  them  over  to  the  women  menders :  at 
night,  to  borrow  a  vivid  expression  from  Lise,  he  was  "  batty 
in  the  belfry"  on  the  subject  of  socialism.  L^nlike  the 
barber,  whom  he  could  not  abide,  for  him  the  cleavage  of 
the  world  was  between  labour  and  capital  instead  of  man 
and  woman;  his  philosophy  was  stern  and  naturalistic; 
the  universe  —  the  origin  of  which  he  did  not  discuss  —  just 
an  accidental  assemblage  of  capricious  forces  over  which 
human  intelligence  was  one  day  to  triumph.  Squatting 
on  the  lowest  step,  his  face  upturned,  by  the  light  of  the  arc 
sputtering  above  the  street  he  looked  like  a  yellow  frog,  his 
eager  eyes  directed  toward  Janet,  whom  he  suspected  of 
intelligence. 

"If  there  was  a  God,  a  nice,  kind,  all-powerful  God, 
would  he  permit  what  happened  in  one  of  the  loom-rooms 
last  week  ?  A  Polak  girl  gets  her  hair  caught  in  the  belt  — 
pfff !"  He  had  a  marvellously  realistic  gift  when  it  came 
to  horrors :  Janet  felt  her  hair  coming  out  by  the  roots. 
Although  she  never  went  to  church,  she  did  not  like  to 
think  that  no  God  existed.  Of  this  Mr.  Shivers  was  very 
positive.  Edward,  too,  listened  uneasily,  hemmed  and 


36  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

hawed,  making  ineffectual  attempts  to  combat  Mr.  Shivers's 
socialism  with  a  deeply-rooted  native  individualism  that 
Shivers  declared  as  defunct  as  Christianity. 

"If  it  is  possible  for  the  workingman  to  rise  under  a 
capitalistic  system,  why  do  you  not  rise,  then?  Why  do 
I  not  rise?  I'm  as  good  as  Ditmar,  I'm  better  educated, 
but  we're  all  slaves.  What  right  has  a  man  to  make  you 
and  me  work  for  him  just  because  he  has  capital?" 

"Why,  the  right  of  capital,"  Edward  would  reply. 

Mr.  Shivers,  with  the  manner  of  one  dealing  with  an 
incurable  romanticism  and  sentimentality,  would  lift  his 
hands  in  despair.  And  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Janet  de 
tested  him,  he  sometimes  exercised  over  her  a  paradoxical 
fascination,  suggesting  as  he  did  unexplored  intellectual 
realms.  She  despised  her  father  for  not  being  able*to  crush 
the  little  man.  Edward  would  make  pathetic  attempts 
to  capture  the  role  Shivers  had  appropriated,  to  be  the 
practical  party  himself,  to  convict  Shivers  of  idealism. 
Socialism  scandalized  him,  outraged,  even  more  than  atheism, 
something  within  him  he  held  sacred,  and  he  was  greatly 
annoyed  because  he  was  unable  adequately  to  express  this 
feeling. 

"You  can't  change  human  nature,  Mr.  Shivers,"  Edward 
would  insist  in  his  precise  but  ineffectual  manner.  "We 
all  want  property,  you  would  accept  a  fortune  if  it  was 
offered  to  you,  and  so  should  I.  Americans  will  never 
become  socialists." 

"  But  look  at  me,  wasn't  I  born  in  Meriden,  Connecticut  ? 
Ain't  that  Yankee  enough  for  you?"  Thus  Mr.  Shivers 
sought  blandly  to  confound  him. 

A  Yankee !  Shades  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers,  of  seven 
generations  of  Bumpuses !  A  Yankee  who  used  his  hands 
in  that  way,  a  Yankee  with  a  nose  like  that,  a  Yankee  with 
a  bald  swathe  down  the  middle  of  his  crown  and  bunches 


THE  D^-ELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  37 

of  black,  moth-eaten  hair  on  either  side !     But  Edward, 
too  polite  to  descend  to  personalities,  was  silent.  .  .  . 

In  brief,  this  very  politeness  of  Edward's,  which  his 
ancestors  would  have  scorned,  this  consideration  and  lack 
of  self-assertion  made  him  the  favourite  prey  of  the  many 
"characters"  in  Fillmore  Street  whose  sanity  had  been 
disturbed  by  pressure  from  above,  in  whose  systems  had 
lodged  the  germs  of  those  exotic  social  doctrines  floating  so 
freely  in  the  air  of  our  modern  industrial  communities.  .  .  . 
Chester  Glenn  remains  for  a  passing  mention.  A  Yankee 
of  Yankees,  this,  born  on  a  Xew  Hampshire  farm,  and  to 
the  ordinary  traveller  on  the  Wigmore  branch  of  the  rail 
road  just  a  good-natured,  round-faced,  tobacco-chewing 
brakeman  who  would  take  a  seat  beside  ladies  of  his  acquaint 
ance  and  make  himself  agreeable  until  it  was  time  to  rise 
and  bawl  out,  in  the  approved  manner  of  his  profession, 
the  name  of  the  next  station.  Fillmore  Street  knew  that  the 
flat  visored  cap  which  his  corporation  compelled  him  to 
wear  covered  a  brain  into  which  had  penetrated  the  maggot 
of  the  Single  Tax.  \Yhen  he  encountered  Mr.  Shivers  or 
Auerrnann  the  talk  became  coruscating.  .  .  . 


Eda  Rawle,  Janet's  solitary  friend  of  these  days,  must 
also  be  mentioned,  though  the  friendship  was  merely  an 
episode  in  Janet's  life.  Their  first  meeting  was  at  Grady's 
quick-lunch  counter  in  Faber  Street,  which  they  both  fre 
quented  at  one  tune,  and  the  fact  that  each  had  ordered  a 
ham  sandwich,  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  a  confection  —  new  to 
Grady's  —  known  as  a  Xapoleon  had  led  to  conversation. 
Eda,  of  course,  was  the  aggressor;  she  was  irresistibly 
drawn,  she  would  not  be  repulsed.  A  stenographer  in  the 
Wessex  National  Bank,  she  boarded  with  a  Welsh  family 


38  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

in  Spruce  Street;  matter-of-fact,  plodding,  commonplace, 
resembling  —  as  Janet  thought  —  a  horse,  possessing,  indeed 
many  of  the  noble  qualities  of  that  animal,  she  might  have 
been  thought  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  discern  and 
appreciate  in  Janet  the  hidden  elements  of  a  mysterious 
fire.  In  appearance  Miss  Rawle  was  of  a  type  not  infre 
quent  in  Anglo-Saxon  lands,  strikingly  blonde,  with  high 
malar  bones,  white  eyelashes,  and  eyes  of  a  metallic  blue, 
cheeks  of  an  amazing  elasticity  that  worked  rather  painfully 
as  she  talked  or  smiled,  drawing  back  inadequate  lips,  re 
vealing  long,  white  teeth  and  vivid  gums.  It  was  the  craving 
in  her  for  romance  Janet  assuaged ;  Eda's  was  the  love  con 
tent  to  pour  out,  that  demands  little.  She  was  capable 
of  immolation.  Janet  was  by  no  means  ungrateful  for  the 
warmth  of  such  affection,  though  in  moments  conscious  of 
a  certain  perplexity  and  sadness  because  she  was  able  to 
give  such  a  meagre  return  for  the  wealth  of  its  offering. 

In  other  moments,  when  the  world  seemed  all  disorder 
and  chaos,  —  as  Mr.  Shivers  described  it,  —  or  when  she 
felt  within  her,  like  demons,  those  inexpressible  longings 
and  desires,  leaping  and  straining,  pulling  her,  almost  irre 
sistibly,  she  knew  not  whither,  Eda  shone  forth  like  a  light 
in  the  darkness,  like  the  beacon  of  a  refuge  and  a  shelter. 
Eda  had  faith  in  her,  even  when  Janet  had  lost  faith  in 
herself  :  she  went  to  Eda  in  the  same  spirit  that  Marguerite 
went  to  church;  though  she,  Janet,  more  resembled  Faust, 
being  —  save  in  these  hours  of  lowered  vitality  —  of  the 
forth-faring  kind.  .  .  .  Unable  to  confess  the  need  that  drove 
her,  she  arrived  in  Eda's  little  bedroom  to  be  taken  into 
Eda's  arms.  Janet  was  immeasurably  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  but  Eda  possessed  the  masculine  trait  of  protectiveness, 
the  universe  never  bothered  her,  she  was  one  of  those  per 
sons  —  called  fortunate  —  to  whom  the  orthodox  Christian 
virtues  come  as  naturally  as  sun  or  air.  Passion,  when 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  39 

sanctified  by  matrimony,  was  her  ideal,  and  now  it  was 
always  in  terms  of  Janet  she  dreamed  of  it,  having  read 
about  it  in  volumes  her  friend  would  not  touch,  and  never 
having  experienced  deeply  its  discomforts.  Sanctified  or 
unsanctified,  Janet  regarded  it  with  terror,  and  whenever 
Eda  innocently  broached  the  subject  she  recoiled.  Once 
Eda  exclaimed :  — 

"When  you  do  fall  in  love,  Janet,  you  must  tell  me  all 
about  it,  every  word  !" 

Janet  blushed  hotly,  and  was  silent.  In  Eda's  mind 
such  an  affair  was  a  kind  of  glorified  fireworks  ending  in  a 
cluster  of  stars,  in  Janet's  a  volcanic  eruption  to  turn  the 
world  red.  Such  was  the  difference  between  them. 

Their  dissipations  together  consisted  of  "sundaes"  at 
a  drug-store,  or  sometimes  of  movie  shows  at  the  Star  or  the 
Alhambra.  Stereotyped  on  Eda's  face  during  the  legitimately 
tender  passages  of  these  dramas  was  an  expression  of  rapture, 
a  smile  made  peculiarly  infatuate  by  that  vertical  line  in 
her  cheeks,  that  inadequacy  of  lip  and  preponderance  of 
white  teeth  and  red  gums.  It  irritated,  almost  infuriated 
Janet,  to  whom  it  appeared  as  the  logical  reflection  of  what 
was  passing  on  the  screen ;  she  averted  her  glance  from  both, 
staring  into  her  lap,  filled  with  shame  that  the  relation 
between  the  sexes  should  be  thus  exposed  to  public  gaze, 
parodied,  sentimentalized,  degraded.  .  .  .  There  were, 
however,  marvels  to  stir  her,  strange  landscapes,  cities, 
seas,  and  ships,  —  once  a  fire  in  the  forest  of  a  western  reserve 
with  gigantic  -tongues  of  orange  flame  leaping  from  tree  to 
tree.  The  movies  brought  the  world  to  Hampton,  the 
great  world  into  which  she  longed  to  fare,  brought  the  world 
to  her!  Remote  mountain  hamlets  from  Japan,  minarets 
and  muezzins  from  the  Orient,  pyramids  from  Egypt,  domes 
from  Moscow  resembling  gilded  beets  turned  upside  down; 
grey  houses  of  parliament  by  the  Thames,  the  Tower  of  Lon- 


40  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

don,  the  Palaces  of  Potsdam,  the  Taj  Mahal.  Strange 
lands  indeed,  and  stranger  peoples !  booted  Russians  in 
blouses,  naked  Equatorial  savages  tattooed  and  amazingly 
adorned,  soldiers  and  sailors,  presidents,  princes  and  em 
perors  brought  into  such  startling  proximity  one  could 
easily  imagine  one's  self  exchanging  the  time  of  day !  In 
credible  to  Janet  how  the  audiences,  how  even  Eda  accepted 
with  American  complacency  what  were  to  her  never-ending 
miracles ;  the  yearning  to  see  more,  to  know  more,  became 
acute,  like  a  pain,  but  even  as  she  sought  to  devour  these 
scenes,  to  drink  in  every  detail,  with  tantalizing  swiftness 
they  were  whisked  away.  They  were  peepholes  in  the 
walls  of  her  prison ;  and  at  night  she  often  charmed  herself 
to  sleep  with  remembered  visions  of  wide,  empty,  tree- 
shaded  terraces  reserved  for  kings. 

But  Eda,  however  complacent  her  interest  in  the  scenes 
themselves,  was  thrilled  to  the  marrow  by  their  effect  on 
Janet,  who  was  her  medium.  Emerging  from  the  vestibule 
of  the  theatre,  Janet  seemed  not  to  see  the  slushy  street,  her 
eyes  shone  with  a  silver  light  like  that  of  a  mountain  lake 
in  a  stormy  sunset.  And  they  walked  in  silence  until  Janet 
would  exclaim :  — 

"Oh  Eda,  wouldn't  you  love  to  travel!" 

Thus  Eda  Rawle  was  brought  in  contact  with  values 
she  herself  was  powerless  to  detect,  and  which  did  not 
become  values  until  they  had  passed  through  Janet.  One 
"educative"  reel  they  had  seen  had  begun  with  scenes  in 
a  lumber  camp  high  in  the  mountains  of  Galicia,  where 
grow  forests  of  the  priceless  pine  that  becomes,  after  years 
of  drying  and  seasoning,  the  sounding  board  of  the  Stradi- 
varius  and  the  harp.  Even  then  it  must  respond  to  a  Player. 
Eda,  though  failing  to  apply  this  poetic  parallel,  when  alone 
in  her  little  room  in  the  Welsh  boarding-house  often  indulged 
in  an  ecstasy  of  speculation  as  to  that  man,  hidden  in  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  41 

mists  of  the  future,  whose  destiny  it  would  be  to  awaken 
her  friend.  Hampton  did  not  contain  him,  —  of  this  she 
was  sure ;  and  in  her  efforts  to  visualize  him  she  had  recourse 
to  the  movies,  seeking  him  amongst  that  brilliant  company 
of  personages  who  stood  so  haughtily  or  walked  so  indif 
ferently  across  the  ephemeral  brightness  of  the  screen. 


By  virtue  of  these  marvels  of  the  movies  Hampton  — 
ugly  and  sordid  Hampton !  —  actually  began  for  Janet  to 
take  on  a  romantic  tinge.  Were  not  the  strange  peoples 
of  the  earth  flocking  to  Hampton  ?  She  saw  them  arriving 
at  the  station,  straight  from  Ellis  Island,  bewildered,  ticketed 
like  dumb  animals,  the  women  draped  in  the  soft,  exotic 
colours  many  of  them  were  presently  to  exchange  for  the 
cheap  and  gaudy  apparel  of  Faber  Street.  She  sought  to 
summon  up  in  her  mind  the  glimpses  she  had  had  of  the 
wonderful  lands  from  which  they  had  come,  to  imagine 
their  lives  in  that  earlier  environment.  Sometimes  she 
wandered,  alone  or  with  Eda,  through  the  various  quarters 
of  the  city.  Each  quarter  had  a  flavour  of  its  own,  a  syn 
thetic  flavour  belonging  neither  to  the  old  nor  to  the  new, 
yet  partaking  of  both :  a  difference  in  atmosphere  to  which 
Janet  was  keenly  sensitive.  In  the  German  quarter,  to  the 
north,  one  felt  a  sort  of  ornamental  bleakness  —  if  the  ex 
pression  may  be  permitted  :  the  tenements  here  were  clean 
and  not  too  crowded,  the  scroll-work  on  their  superimposed 
porches,  like  that  decorating  the  Turnverein  and  the  stern 
Lutheran  Church,  was  eloquent  of  a  Teutonic  inheritance. 
The  Belgians  were  to  the  west,  beyond  the  base-ball  park 
and  the  car  barns,  their  grey  houses  scattered  among  new 
streets  beside  the  scarred  and  frowning  face  of  Torrey's  hill. 
Almost  under  the  hill  itself,  which  threatened  to  roll  down 
on  it,  and  facing  a  bottomless,  muddy  street,  was  the  quaint 


42  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

little  building  giving  the  note  of  foreign  thrift,  of  socialism 
and  shrewdness,  of  joie  de  mme  to  the  settlement,  the  Franco- 
Belgian  co-operative  store,  with  its  salle  de  reunion  above 
and  a  stage  for  amateur  theatricals.  Standing  in  the  mud 
outside,  Janet  would  gaze  through  the  tiny  windows  in  the 
stucco  wall  at  the  baskets  prepared  for  each  household  laid 
in  neat  rows  beside  the  counter;  at  the  old  man  with  the 
watery  blue  eyes  and  lacing  of  red  in  his  withered  cheeks 
who  spoke  no  English,  whose  duty  it  was  to  distribute  the 
baskets  to  the  women  and  children  as  they  called. 

Turning  eastward  again,  one  came  to  Dey  Street,  in  the 
heart  of  Hampton,  where  Hibernian  Hall  stood  alone  and 
grim,  sole  testimony  of  the  departed  Hibernian  glories  of 
a  district  where  the  present  Irish  rulers  of  the  city  had  once 
lived  and  gossiped  and  fought  in  the  days  when  the  mill 
bells  had  roused  the  boarding-house  keepers  at  half  past 
four  of  a  winter  morning.  Beside  the  hall  was  a  corner  lot, 
heaped  high  with  hills  of  ashes  and  rubbish  like  the  vomit 
ings  of  some  filthy  volcano ;  the  unsightliness  of  which  was 
half  concealed  by  huge  signs  announcing  the  merits  of  chew 
ing  gums,  tobaccos,  and  cereals.  But  why  had  the  departure 
of  the  Irish,  the  coming  of  the  Syrians  made  Dey  Street 
dark,  narrow,  mysterious,  oriental?  changed  the  very 
aspect  of  its  architecture  ?  Was  it  .the  coffee-houses  ?  One 
of  these,  in  front  of  which  Janet  liked  to  linger,  was  set 
weirdly  into  an  old  New  England  cottage,  and  had,  ap 
parently,  fathomless  depths.  In  summer  the  whole  front 
of  it  lay  open  to  the  street,  and  here  all  day  long,  beside  the 
table  where  the  charcoal  squares  were  set  to  dry,  could  be 
seen  saffron-coloured  Armenians  absorbed  in  a  Turkish 
game  played  on  a  backgammon  board,  their  gentleness  and 
that  of  the  loiterers  looking  on  in  strange  contrast  with  their 
hawk-like  profiles  and  burning  eyes.  Behind  this  group, 
in  the  half  light  of  the  middle  interior,  could  be  discerned 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  43 

an  American  soda-water  fountain  of  a  bygone  fashion,  on 
its  marble  counter  oddly  shaped  bottles  containing  rose  and 
violet  syrups;  there  was  a  bottle-shaped  stove,  and  on 
the  walls,  in  gilt  frames,  pictures  evidently  dating  from  the 
period  in  American  art  that  flourished  when  Franklin 
Pierce  was  President ;  and  there  was  an  array  of  marble- 
topped  tables  extending  far  back  into  the  shadows.  Behind 
the  fountain  was  a  sort  of  cupboard  —  suggestive  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  which  Janet  had  never  read  —  from  which, 
occasionally,  the  fat  proprietor  emerged  bearing  Turkish 
coffee  or  long  Turkish  pipes. 

When  not  thus  occupied  the  proprietor  carried  a  baby. 
The  street  swarmed  with  babies,  and  mothers  nursed  them 
on  the  door-steps.  And  in  this  teeming,  prolific  street 
one  could  scarcely  move  without  stepping  on  a  fat,  almond- 
eyed  child,  though  some,  indeed,  were  wheeled;  wheeled  in 
all  sorts  of  queer  contrivances  by  one  another,  by  fathers 
with  ragged  black  moustaches  and  eagle  noses  who,  to  the 
despair  of  mill  superintendents,  had  decided  in  the  morning 
that  three  days'  wages  would  suffice  to  support  their  families 
for  the  week.  ...  In  the  midst  of  the  throng  might  be  seen 
occasionally  the  stout  and  comfortable  and  not  too  immac 
ulate  figure  of  a  shovel  bearded  Syrian  priest,  in  a  frock 
coat  and  square-topped  "Derby"  hat,  sailing  along  serenely, 
heedless  of  the  children  who  scattered  out  of  his  path. 

Nearby  was  the  quarter  of  the  Canadian  French,  scarcely 
now  to  be  called  foreigners,  though  still  somewhat  reminis 
cent  of  the  cramped  little  towns  in  the  northern  wilderness 
of  water  and  forest.  On  one  corner  stood  almost  invariably 
a  "  Pharmacie  Francaise  " ;  the  signs  were  in  French,  and 
the  elders  spoke  the  patois.  These,  despite  the  mill  pallor, 
retained  in  their  faces,  in  their  eyes,  a  suggestion  of  the  out 
door  look  of  their  ancestors,  the  coureurs  des  bois,  but  the 
children  spoke  English,  and  the  young  men,  as  they  played 


44  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

base-ball  in  the  street  or  in  the  corner  lots  might  be  heard 
shouting  out  derisively  the  cry  of  the  section  hands  so 
familiar  in  mill  cities,  "Doff,  you  beggars  you,  doff!  " 

Occasionally  the  two  girls  strayed  into  that  wide  thorough 
fare  not  far  from  the  canal,  known  by  the  classic  name  of 
Hawthorne,  which  the  Italians  had  appropriated  to  them 
selves.  This  street,  too,  in  spite  of  the  telegraph  poles 
flaunting  crude  arms  in  front  of  its  windows,  in  spite  of  the 
trolley  running  down  its  middle,  had  acquired  a  character,  a 
unity  all  its  own,  a  warmth  and  picturesqueness  that  in  the 
lingering  light  of  summer  evenings  assumed  an  indefinable 
significance.  It  was  not  Italy,  but  it  was  something  — 
something  proclaimed  in  the  ornate,  leaning  lines  of  the 
pillared  balconies  of  the  yellow  tenement  on  the  second 
block,  in  the  stone-vaulted  entrance  of  the  low  house  next 
door,  in  fantastically  coloured  walls,  in  curtained  windows 
out  of  which  leaned  swarthy,  earringed  women.  Blocking 
the  end  of  the  street,  in  stern  contrast,  was  the  huge  Claren 
don  Mill  with  its  sinister  brick  pillars  running  up  the  six 
stories  between  the  glass.  Here  likewise  the  sidewalks  over 
flowed  with  children,  large-headed,  with  great,  lustrous  eyes, 
mute,  appealing,  the  eyes  of  cattle.  Unlike  American  chil 
dren,  they  never  seemed  to  be  playing.  Among  the  groups  of 
elders  gathered  for  gossip  were  piratical  Calabrians  in  sombre 
clothes,  descended  from  Greek  ancestors,  once  the  terrors 
of  the  Adriatic  Sea.  The  women,  lingering  in  the  doorways, 
hemmed  in  by  more  children,  were  for  the  most  part  squat 
and  plump,  but  once  in  a  while  Janet's  glance  was  caught 
and  held  by  a  strange,  sharp  beauty  worthy  of  a  cameo. 

Opposite  the  Clarendon  Mill  on  the  corner  of  East  Street 
was  a  provision  store  with  stands  of  fruit  and  vegetables 
encroaching  on  the  pavement.  Janet's  eye  was  attracted 
by  a  box  of  olives. 

"Oh  Eda,"  she  cried,  "do  you  remember,  we  saw  them 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  45 

* 

being  picked  —  in  the  movies  ?  All  those  old  trees  on  the 
side  of  a  hill?" 

"Why,  that's  so,"  said  Eda.  "You  never  would  have 
thought  anything'd  grow  on  those  trees." 

The  young  Italian  who  kept  the  store  gave  them  a  friendly 
grin. 

"You  lika  the  olives?"  he  asked,  putting  some  of  the  shin 
ing  black  fruit  into  their  hands.  Eda  bit  one  dubiously 
with  her  long,  white  teeth,  and  giggled. 

"Don't  they  taste  funny !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Good  —  very  good,"  he  asserted  gravely,  and  it  was  to 
Janet  he  turned,  as  though  recognizing  a  discrimination  not 
to  be  found  in  her  companion.  She  nodded  affirmatively. 
The  strange  taste  of  the  fruit  enhanced  her  sense  of  adventure, 
she  tried  to  imagine  herself  among  the  gatherers  in  the 
grove;  she  glanced  at  the  young  man  to  perceive  that  he 
was  tall  and  well  formed,  with  remarkably  expressive  eyes 
almost  the  colour  of  the  olives  themselves.  It  surprised 
her  that  she  liked  him,  though  he  was  an  Italian  and  a 
foreigner :  a  certain  debonnair  dignity  in  him  appealed  to 
her  —  a  quality  lacking  in  many  of  her  own  countrymen. 
And  she  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  Italy,  —  only  she  did 
not  know  how  to  begin,  —  when  a  customer  appeared,  an 
Italian  woman  who  conversed  with  him  in  soft,  liquid  tones 
that  moved  her.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  on  these  walks  —  especially  if  the  day  were 
grey  and  sombre  —  Janet's  sense  of  romance  and  adventure 
deepened,  became  more  poignant,  charged  with  presage. 
These  feelings,  vague  and  unaccountable,  she  was  utterly 
unable  to  confide  to  Eda,  yet  the  very  fear  they  inspired 
was  fascinating;  a  fear  and  a  hope  that  some  day,  in  all 
this  Babel  of  peoples,  something  would  happen !  It  was  as 
though  the  conflicting  soul  of  the  city  and  her  own  soul 
were  one.  . 


CHAPTER  III 


LISE  was  the  only  member  of  the  Bumpus  family  who  did 
not  find  uncongenial  such  distractions  and  companionships 
as  were  offered  by  the  civilization  that  surrounded  them. 
The  Bagatelle  she  despised ;  that  was  slavery  —  but  slavery 
out  of  which  she  might  any  day  be  snatched,  like  Leila 
Hawtrey,  by  a  prince  charming  who  had  made  a  success 
in  life.  Success  to  Lise  meant  money.  Although  what 
some  sentimental  sociologists  might  call  a  victim  of  our 
civilization,  Lise  would  not  have  changed  it,  since  it  pro 
duced  not  only  Lise  herself,  but  also  those  fabulous  financiers 
with  yachts  and  motors  and  town  and  country  houses  she 
read  about  in  the  supplements  of  the  Sunday  newspapers. 
It  contained  her  purgatory,  which  she  regarded  in  good 
conventional  fashion  as  a  mere  temporary  place  of  detention, 
and  likewise  the  heaven  toward  which  she  strained,  the 
dwelling-place  of  light.  In  short,  her  philosophy  was  that 
of  the  modern,  orthodox  American,  tinged  by  a  somewhat 
commercialized  Sunday  school  tradition  of  an  earlier  day, 
and  highly  approved  by  the  censors  of  the  movies.  The 
peculiar  kind  of  abstinence  once  euphemistically  known  as 
"virtue,"  particularly  if  it  were  combined  with  beauty, 
never  failed  of  its  reward.  Lise,  in  this  sense,  was  indeed 
virtuous,  and  her  mirror  told  her  she  was  beautiful.  Almost 
anything  could  happen  to  such  a  lady :  any  day  she  might 
be  carried  up  into  heaven  by  that  modern  chariot  of  fire, 
the  motor  car,  driven  by  a  celestial  chauffeur. 

46 


THE   D^^YELLIXG-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  47 

One  man's  meat  being  another's  poison,  Lise  absorbed 
from  the  movies  an  element  by  which  her  sister  Janet  was  re 
pelled.  A  popular  production  known  as  "  Leila  of  Hawtrey  V ' 
contained  her  creed,  —  Hawtrey's  being  a  glittering  metro 
politan  restaurant  where  men  of  the  world  are  wont  to  gather 
and  discuss  the  stock  market,  and  Leila  a  beautiful,  blonde 
and  orphaned  waitress  upon  whom  several  of  the  fashionable 
frequenters  had  exercised  seductive  powers  in  vain.  They 
lay  in  wait  for  her  at  the  side  entrance,  followed  her,  while 
one  dissipated  and  desperate  person,  married,  and  said  to 
move  in  the  most  exclusive  circles,  sent  her  an  offer  of  a  yearly 
income  in  five  figures,  the  note  being  reproduced  on  the 
screen,  and  Leila  pictured  reading  it  in  her  frigid  hall-bed 
room.  There  are  complications;  she  is  in  debt,  and  the 
proprietor  of  Hawtrey's  has  threatened  to  discharge  her : 
and  in  order  that  the  magnitude  of  the  temptation  may  be 
most  effectively  realized  the  vision  appears  of  Leila  herself, 
wrapped  in  furs,  stepping  out  of  a  limousine  and  into  an 
elevator  lifting  her  to  an  apartment  containing  silk  curtains, 
a  Canet  bed,  a  French  maid,  and  a  Pomeranian.  Virtue 
totters,  but  triumphs,  being  reinforced  by  two  more  visions  : 
the  first  of  these  portrays  Leila,  prematurely  old,  dragging 
herself  along  pavements  under  the  metallic  Broadway 
lights  accosting  gentlemen  in  evening  dress ;  and  the  second 
reveals  her  in  the  country,  kneeling  beside  a  dying  mother's 
bed,  giving  her  promise  to  remain  true  to  the  Christian 
teachings  of  her  childhood. 

And  virtue  is  rewarded,  lavishly,  as  virtue  should  be, 
in  dollars  and  cents,  in  stocks  and  bonds,  in  pearls  and 
diamonds.  Popular  fancy  takes  kindly  to  rough  but  honest 
westerners  who  have  begun  life  in  flannel  shirts,  who  have 
struck  gold  and  come  to  New  York  with  a  fortune  but 
despising  effeteness ;  such  a  one,  tanned  by  the  mountain 
sun,  embarrassed  in  raiment  supplied  by  a  Fifth  Avenue 


48  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

tailor,  takes  a  table  one  evening  at  Hawtrey's  and  of  course 
falls  desperately  in  love.  He  means  marriage  from  the  first, 
and  his  faith  in  Leila  is  great  enough  to  survive  what  appears 
to  be  an  almost  total  eclipse  of  her  virtue.  Through  the 
machinations  of  the  influential  villain,  and  lured  by  the 
false  pretence  that  one  of  her  girl  friends  is  ill,  she  is  enticed 
into  a  mysterious  house  of  a  sinister  elegance,  and  apparently 
irretrievably  compromised.  The  westerner  follows,  forces 
his  way  through  the  portals,  engages  the  villain,  and  van 
quishes  him.  Leila  becomes  a  Bride.  We  behold  her,  at 
the  end,  mistress  of  one  of  those  magnificent  stone  mansions 
with  grilled  vestibules  and  negro  butlers  into  whose  sacred 
precincts  we  are  occasionally,  in  the  movies,  somewhat 
breathlessly  ushered  —  a  long  way  from  Hawtrey's  res 
taurant  and  a  hall-bedroom.  A  long  way,  too,  from  the 
Bagatelle  and  Fillmore  Street  —  but  to  Lise  a  way  not 
impossible,  nor  even  improbable. 

This  work  of  art,  conveying  the  moral  that  virtue  is  an 
economic  asset,  made  a  great  impression  on  Lise.  Good 
Old  Testament  doctrine,  set  forth  in  the  Book  of  Job  itself. 
And  Leila,  pictured  as  holding  out  for  a  higher  price  and 
getting  it,  encouraged  Lise  to  hold  out  also.  Mr.  Wiley, 
in  whose  company  she  had  seen  this  play,  and  whose  likeness 
filled  the  plush  and  silver-plated  frame  on  her  bureau,  re 
mained  ironically  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  paid  out 
his  money  to  make  definite  an  ambition,  an  ideal  hitherto 
nebulous  in  the  mind  of  the  lady  whom  he  adored.  Nor 
did  Lise  enlighten  him,  being  gifted  with  a  certain  inscrut- 
ableness.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  had  never  been  her  intention 
to  accept  him,  but  now  that  she  was  able  concretely  to  vis 
ualize  her  Lochinvar  of  the  future,  Mr.  Wiley's  lack  of  quali 
fications  became  the  more  apparent.  In  the  first  place, 
he  had  been  born  in  Lowell  and  had  never  been  west  of 
Worcester;  in  the  second,  his  salary  was  sixteen  dollars  a 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  49 

week :  it  is  true  she  had  once  fancied  the  Scottish  terrier 
style  of  hair-cut  abruptly  ending  in  the  rounded  line  of  the 
shaven  neck,  but  Lochinvar  had  been  close-cropped.  Mr. 
Wiley,  close-cropped,  would  have  resembled  a  convict. 

Mr.  Wiley  was  in  love,  there  could  be  no  doubt  about 
that,  and  if  he  had  not  always  meant  marriage,  he  meant  it 
now,  having  reached  a  state  where  no  folly  seems  preposter 
ous.  The  manner  of  their  meeting  had  had  just  the  adven 
turous  and  romantic  touch  that  Lise  liked,  one  of  her 
favourite  amusements  in  the  intervals  between  "steadies" 
being  to  walk  up  and  down  Faber  Street  of  an  evening  after 
supper,  arm  in  arm  with  two  or  three  other  young  ladies, 
all  chewing  gum,  wheeling  into  store  windows  and  wheeling 
out  again,  pretending  the  utmost  indifference  to  melting 
glances  cast  in  their  direction.  An  exciting  sport,  though 
incomprehensible  to  masculine  intelligence.  It  was  a 
principle  with  Lise  to  pay  no  attention  to  any  young  man 
who  was  not  "presented,"  those  venturing  to  approach  her 
with  the  ready  formula  "Haven't  we  met  before?"  being 
instantly  congealed.  She  was  strict  as  to  etiquette.  But 
Mr.  WTiley,  it  seemed,  could  claim  acquaintance  with  Miss 
Schuler,  one  of  the  ladies  to  whose  arm  Lise's  was  linked, 
and  he  had  the  further  advantage  of  appearing  in  a  large 
and  seductive  touring  car,  painted  green,  with  an  eagle 
poised  above  the  hood  and  its  name,  Wizard,  in  a  handwriting 
rounded  and  bold,  written  in  nickel  across  the  radiator. 
He  greeted  Miss  Schuler  effusively,  but  his  eye  was  on  Lise 
from  the  first,  and  it  was  she  he  took  with  him  in  the  front 
seat,  indifferent  to  the  giggling  behind.  Ever  since  then 
Lise  had  had  a  motor  at  her  disposal,  and  on  Sundays  they 
took  long  "joy  rides"  beyond  the  borders  of  the  state.  But 
it  must  not  be  imagined  that  Mr.  WTiley  was  the  proprietor 
of  the  vehicle ;  nor  was  he  a  chauffeur,  —  her  American 
pride  would  not  have  permitted  her  to  keep  company  with 


50  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

a  chauffeur :  he  was  the  demonstrator  for  the  Wizard,  some 
thing  of  a  wizard  himself,  as  Lise  had  to  admit  when  they 
whizzed  over  the  tar  via  of  the  Riverside  Boulevard  at  fifty 
or  sixty  miles  an  hour  with  the  muffler  cut  out  —  a  favourite 
diversion  of  Mr.  Wiley's,  who  did  not  feel  he  was  going 
unless  he  was  accompanied  by  a  noise  like  that  of  a  mitra 
illeuse  in  action.  Lise,  experiencing  a  ravishing  terror, 
hung  on  to  her  hat  with  one  hand  and  to  Mr.  Wiley  with 
the  other,  her  code  permitting  this;  permitting  him  also, 
occasionally,  when  they  found  themselves  in  tenebrous 
portions  of  Slattery's  Riverside  Park,  to  put  his  arm  around 
her  waist  and  kiss  her.  So  much  did  Lise's  virtue  allow,  and 
no  more,  the  result  being  that  he  existed  in  a  tantalizing 
state  of  hope  and  excitement  most  detrimental  to  the  nerves. 

He  never  lost,  however,  —  in  public  at  least,  or  before 
Lise's  family,  —  the  fine  careless,  jaunty  air  of  the  demon 
strator,  of  the  free-lance  for  whom  seventy  miles  an  hour 
has  no  terrors;  the  automobile,  apparently,  like  the  ship, 
sets  a  stamp  upon  its  votaries.  No  Elizabethan  buccaneer 
swooping  down  on  defenceless  coasts  ever  exceeded  in  au 
dacity  Mr.  Wiley's  invasion  of  quiet  Fillmore  Street.  He 
would  draw  up  with  an  ear-splitting  screaming  of  brakes 
in  front  of  the  clay-yellow  house,  and  sometimes  the  muffler, 
as  though  unable  to  repress  its  approval  of  the  performance, 
would  let  out  a  belated  pop  that  never  failed  to  jar  the  inner 
most  being  of  Auermann,  who  had  been  shot  at,  or  rather 
shot  past,  by  an  Italian,  and  knew  what  it  was.  He  hated 
automobiles,  he  hated  Mr.  Wiley. 

"Vat  you  do?"  he  would  demand,  glaring. 

And  Mr.  Wiley  would  laugh  insolently. 

"You  think  7  done  it,  do  you,  Dutchie  —  huh  !" 

He  would  saunter  past,  up  the  stairs,  and  into  the  Bumpus 
dining-room,  often  before  the  family  had  finished  their 
evening  meal.  Lise  alone  made  him  welcome,  albeit  de- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  51 

murely;  but  Mr.  Wiley,  not  having  sensibilities,  was  proof 
against  Hannah's  coldness  and  Janet's  hostility.  With 
unerring  instinct  he  singled  out  Edward  as  his  victim. 

"How's  Mr.  Bumpus  this  evening?"  he  would  genially 
inquire. 

Edward  invariably  assured  Mr.  Wiley  that  he  was  well, 
invariably  took  a  drink  of  coffee  to  emphasize  the  fact,  as 
though  the  act  of  lifting  his  cup  had  in  it  some  magic  to 
ward  off  the  contempt  of  his  wife  and  elder  daughter. 

"Well,  I've  got  it  pretty  straight  that  the  Arundel's  going 
to  run  nights,  starting  next  week,"  Lise's  suitor  would 
continue. 

And  to  save  his  soul  Edward  could  not  refrain  from  an 
swering,  "You  don't  say  so!"  He  feigned  interest  in  the 
information  that  the  Hampton  Ball  Team,  owing  to  an  un 
satisfactory  season,  was  to  change  managers  next  year.  Mr. 
Wiley  possessed  the  gift  of  gathering  recondite  bits  of  news, 
he  had  confidence  in  his  topics  and  in  his  manner  of  dealing 
with  them;  and  Edward,  pretending  to  be  entertained, 
went  so  far  in  his  politeness  as  to  ask  Mr.  Wiley  if  he  had 
had  supper. 

"I  don't  care  if  I  sample  one  of  Mis'  Bumpus's  dough 
nuts,"  Mr.  Wiley  would  reply  politely,  reaching  out  a  large 
hand  that  gave  evidence,  in  spite  of  Sapolio,  of  an  intimacy 
with  grease  cups  and  splash  pans.  "I  guess  there's  nobody 
in  this  burg  can  make  doughnuts  to  beat  vours,  Mis'  Bum- 
pus." 

If  she  had  only  known  which  doughnut  he  would  take, 
Hannah  sometimes  thought  she  might  have  been  capable  of 
putting  arsenic  in  it.  Her  icy  silence  did  not  detract  from 
the  delights  of  his  gustation. 

Occasionally,  somewhat  to  Edward's  alarm,  Hannah 
demanded  :  "WThere  are  you  taking  Lise  this  evening?" 

Mr.  Wiley's  wisdom  led  him  to  be  vague. 


52  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Oh,  just  for  a  little  spin  up  the  boulevard.  Maybe 
we'll  pick  up  Ella  Schuler  and  one  or  two  other  young  ladies." 

Hannah  and  Janet  knew  very  well  he  had  no  intention  of 
doing  this,  and  Hannah  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her 
incredulity.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Lise  sometimes  did  insist 
on  a  "party." 

"  I  want  you  should  bring  her  back  by  ten  o'clock.  That's 
late  enough  for  a  girl  who  works  to  be  out.  It's  late  enough 
for  any  girl." 

"Sure,  Mis'  Bumpus,"  Wiley  would  respond  easily. 

Hannah  chafed  because  she  had  no  power  to  enforce  this, 
because  Mr.  Wiley  and  Lise  understood  she  had  no  power. 
Lise  went  to  put  on  her  hat;  if  she  skimped  her  toilet  in 
the  morning,  she  made  up  for  it  in  the  evening  when  she 
came  home  from  the  store,  and  was  often  late  for  supper. 
In  the  meantime,  while  Lise  was  in  the  bedroom  adding 
these  last  touches,  Edward  would  contemptibly  continue  the 
conversation,  fingering  the  Evening  Banner  as  it  lay  in  his 
lap,  while  Mr.  Wiley  helped  himself  boldly  to  another 
doughnut,  taking  —  as  Janet  observed  —  elaborate  pre 
cautions  to  spill  none  of  the  crumbs  on  a  brown  suit,  supposed 
to  be  the  last  creation  in  male  attire.  Behind  a  plate  glass 
window  in  Faber  Street,  belonging  to  a  firm  of  "custom" 
tailors  whose  stores  had  invaded  every  important  city  in 
the  country,  and  who  made  clothes  for  "college"  men,  only 
the  week  before  Mr.  Wiley  had  seen  this  same  suit  artisti 
cally  folded,  combined  with  a  coloured  shirt,  brown  socks, 
and  tie  and  "torture"  collar  —  lures  for  the  discriminating. 
Owing  to  certain  expenses  connected  with  Lise,  he  had  been 
unable  to  acquire  the  shirt  and  the  tie,  but  he  had  bought 
the  suit  in  the  hope  and  belief  that  she  would  find  him 
irresistible  therein.  It  pleased  him,  too,  to  be  taken  for  a 
"college"  man,  and  on  beholding  in  the  mirror  his  broadened 
shoulders  and  diminished  waist  he  was  quite  convinced  his 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  53 

money  had  not  been  spent  in  vain ;  that  strange  young  ladies 
—  to  whom,  despite  his  infatuation  for  the  younger  Miss 
Bumpus,  he  was  not  wholly  indifferent  —  would  mistake 
him  for  an  undergraduate  of  Harvard,  —  an  imposition 
concerning  which  he  had  no  scruples.  But  Lise,  though 
shaken,  had  not  capitulated.  .  .  . 

When  she  returned  to  the  dining-room,  arrayed  in  her 
own  finery,  demure,  triumphant,  and  had  carried  off  Mr. 
Wiley  there  would  ensue  an  interval  of  silence  broken  only 
by  the  clattering  together  of  the  dishes  Hannah  snatched  up. 

"I  guess  he's  the  kind  of  son-in-law  would  suit  you,"  she 
threw  over  her  shoulder  once  to  Edward. 

"Why?"  he  inquired,  letting  down  his  newspaper  ner 
vously. 

"  Wrell,  you  seem  to  favour  him,  to  make  things  as  pleasant 
for  him  as  you  can." 

Edward  would  grow  warm  with  a  sense  of  injustice,  the 
inference  being  that  he  was  to  blame  for  Mr.  \Viley ;  if  he 
had  been  a  different  kind  of  father  another  sort  of  suitor 
would  be  courting  Lise. 

"I  have  to  be  civil,"  he  protested.  He  pronounced  that 
word  "civil"  exquisitely,  giving  equal  value  to  both  syl 
lables. 

"Civil!"  Hannah  scoffed,  as  she  left  the  room;  and  to 
Janet,  who  had  followed  her  into  the  kitchen,  she  added: 
"That's  the  trouble  with  your  father,  he's  always  be'n 
a  little  too  civil.  Edward  Bumpus  is  just  as  simple  as  a 
child,  he's  afraid  of  offending  folks'  feelings.  .  .  .  Think  of 
being  polite  to  that  Wiley!"  In  those  two  words  Hannah 
announced  eloquently  her  utter  condemnation  of  the  dem 
onstrator  of  the  Wizard.  It  was  characteristic  of  her, 
however,  when  she  went  back  for  another  load  of  dishes 
and  perceived  that  Edward  was  only  pretending  to  read  his 
Banner,  to  attempt  to  ease  her  husband's  feelings.  She 


54  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

thought  it  queer  because  she  was  still  fond  of  Edward  Bum- 
pus,  after  all  he  had  "  brought  on  her." 

"It's  Lise,"  she  said,  as  though  speaking  to  Janet,  "she 
attracts  'em.  Sometimes  I  just  can't  get  used  to  it  that 
she's  my  daughter.  I  don't  know  who  she  takes  after. 
She's  not  like  any  of  my  kin,  nor  any  of  the  Bumpuses." 

"What  can  you  do?"  asked  Edward.  "You  can't  order 
him  out  of  the  house.  It's  better  for  him  to  come  here. 
And  you  can't  stop  Lise  from  going  with  him  —  she's  earn 
ing  her  own  money.  ..." 

They  had  talked  over  the  predicament  before,  and  always 
came  to  the  same  impasse.  In  the  privacy  of  the  kitchen 
Hannah  paused  suddenly  in  her  energetic  rubbing  of  a  plate 
and  with  supreme  courage  uttered  a  question. 

"Janet,  do  you  calculate  he  means  anything  wrong?" 

"I  don't  know  what  he  means,"  Janet  replied,  unwilling 
to  give  Mr.  Wiley  credit  for  anything,  "but  I  know  this, 
that  Lise  is  too  smart  to  let  him  take  advantage  of  her." 

Hannah  ruminated.  Cleverness  as  the  modern  substitute 
for  feminine  virtue  did  not  appeal  to  her,  but  she  let  it  pass. 
She  was  in  no  mood  to  quarrel  with  any  quality  that  would 
ward  off  disgrace. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  Lise  —  she  don't  appear 
to  have  any  principles.  ..." 

If  the  Wiley  affair  lasted  longer  than  those  preceding 
it,  this  was  because  former  suitors  had  not  commanded  auto 
mobiles.  When  Mr.  Wiley  lost  his  automobile  he  lost  his 
luck  —  if  it  may  be  called  such.  One  April  evening,  after 
a  stroll  with  Eda,  Janet  reached  home  about  nine  o'clock 
to  find  Lise  already  in  their  room,  to  remark  upon  the  ab 
sence  of  Mr.  Wiley's  picture  from  the  frame. 

"I'm  through  with  him,"  Lise  declared  briefly,  tugging 
at  her  hair. 

"Through  with  him?"  Janet  repeated. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  55 

Lise  paused  in  her  labours  and  looked  at  her  sister  steadily. 

"I  handed  him  the  mit  —  do  you  get  me?" 

"But  why?" 

"  Why  ?  I  was  sick  of  him  —  ain't  that  enough  ?  And 
then  he  got  mixed  up  with  a  Glendale  trolley  and  smashed 
his  radiator,  and  the  Wizard  people  sacked  him.  I  always 
told  him  he  was  too  fly.  It's  lucky  for  him  I  wasn't  in  the 
car." 

"It's  lucky  for  you,"  said  Janet.  Presently  she  inquired 
curiously:  "Aren't  you  sorry?" 

"Xix."  Lise  shook  her  head,  which  was  now  bowed, 
her  face  hidden  by  hair.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  sick  of 
him  ?  But  he  sure  was  some  spender,"  she  added,  as  though 
in  justice  bound  to  give  him  his  due. 

Janet  was  shocked  by  the  ruthlessness  of  it,  for  Lise 
appeared  relieved,  almost  gay.  She  handed  Janet  a  box 
containing  five  peppermint  creams  —  all  that  remained  of 
Mr.  Wiley's  last  gift. 


One  morning  in  the  late  spring  Janet  crossed  the  Warren 
Street  bridge,  the  upper  of  the  two  spider-like  structures 
to  be  seen  from  her  office  window,  spanning  the  river  beside 
the  great  Hampton  dam.  The  day,  dedicated  to  the  mem 
ory  of  heroes  fallen  in  the  Civil  War,  the  thirtieth  of  May, 
was  a  legal  holiday.  Gradually  Janet  had  acquired  a  dread 
of  holidays  as  opportunities  never  realized,  as  intervals 
that  should  have  been  filled  with  unmitigated  joys,  and  yet 
were  invariably  wasted,  usually  in  walks  with  Eda  Rawle. 
To-day,  feeling  an  irresistible  longing  for  freedom,  for  beauty, 
for  adventure,  for  quest  and  discovery  of  she  knew  not  what, 
she  avoided  Eda,  and  after  gazing  awhile  at  the  sunlight 
dancing  in  the  white  mist  below  the  falls,  she  walked  on, 
southward,  until  she  had  left  behind  her  the  last  straggling 


56  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

houses  of  the  city  and  found  herself  on  a  wide,  tarvia  road 
that  led,  ultimately,  to  Boston.  So  read  the  sign. 

Great  maples,  heavy  with  leaves,  stood  out  against  the 
soft  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the  sunlight  poured  over  every 
thing,  bathing  the  stone  walls,  the  thatches  of  the  farm 
houses,  extracting  from  the  copses  of  stunted  pine  a  pungent, 
reviving  perfume.  Sometimes  she  stopped  to  rest  on  the 
pine  needles,  and  walked  on  again,  aimlessly,  following 
the  road  because  it  was  the  easiest  way.  There  were  spring 
flowers  in  the  farmhouse  yards,  masses  of  lilacs  whose  purple 
she  drank  in  eagerly;  the  air,  which  had  just  a  tang  of 
New  England  sharpness,  wras  filled  with  tender  sounds, 
the  clucking  of  hens,  snatches  of  the  songs  of  birds,  the 
rustling  of  maple  leaves  in  the  fitful  breeze.  A  chipmunk 
ran  down  an  elm  and  stood  staring  at  her  with  beady,  in 
quisitive  eyes,  motionless  save  for  his  quivering  tail,  and 
she  put  forth  her  hand,  shyly,  beseechingly,  as  though  he 
held  the  secret  of  life  she  craved.  But  he  darted  away. 

She  looked  around  her  unceasingly,  at  the  sky,  at  the 
trees,  at  the  flowers  and  ferns  and  fields,  at  the  vireos  and 
thrushes,  the  robins  and  tanagers  flashing  in  and  out  amidst 
the  foliage,  and  she  was  filled  with  a  strange  yearning  to  expand 
and  expand  until  she  should  become  a  part  of  all  nature,  be 
absorbed  into  it,  cease  to  be  herself.  Never  before  had  she 
known  just  that  feeling,  that  degree  of  ecstasy  mingled  with 
divine  discontent.  .  .  .  Occasionally,  intruding  faintly  upon 
the  countryside  peace,  she  was  aware  of  a  distant  humming 
sound  that  grew  louder  and  louder  until  there  shot  roaring 
past  her  an  automobile  filled  with  noisy  folk,  leaving  behind 
it  a  suffocating  cloud  of  dust.  Even  these  intrusions,  re 
minders  of  the  city  she  had  left,  were  powerless  to  destroy 
her  mood,  and  she  began  to  skip,  like  a  schoolgirl,  pausing 
once  in  a  while  to  look  around  her  fearfully,  lest  she  was 
observed ;  and  it  pleased  her  to  think  that  she  had  escaped 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  57 

forever,  that  she  would  never  go  back :  she  cried  aloud,  as 
she  skipped,  "I  won't  go  back,  I  won't  go  back,"  keeping 
time  with  her  feet  until  she  was  out  of  breath  and  almost 
intoxicated,  delirious,  casting  herself  down,  her  heart  beating 
wildly,  on  a  bank  of  ferns,  burying  her  face  in  them.  She 
had  really  stopped  because  a  pebble  had  got  into  her  shoe, 
and  as  she  took  it  out  she  looked  at  her  bare  heel  and  re 
marked  ruefully :  — 

"Those  twenty-five  cent  stockings  aren't  worth  buying!" 
Economic  problems,  however,  were  powerless  to  worry 
her  to-day,  when  the  sun  shone  and  the  wind  blew  and  the 
ferns,  washed  by  the  rill  running  through  the  culvert  under 
the  road,  gave  forth  a  delicious  moist  odour  reminding 
her  of  the  flower  store  where  her  sister  Lise  had  once  been 
employed.  But  at  length  she  arose,  and  after  an  hour  or 
more  of  sauntering  the  farming  landscape  was  left  behind, 
the  crumbling  stone  fences  were  replaced  by  a  well-kept 
retaining  wall  capped  by  a  privet  hedge,  through  which, 
between  stone  pillars,  a  driveway  entered  and  mounted  the 
shaded  slope,  turning  and  twisting  until  lost  to  view.  But 
afar,  standing  on  the  distant  crest,  through  the  tree  trunks 
and  foliage  Janet  saw  one  end  of  the  mansion  to  which  it 
led,  and  ventured  timidly  but  eagerly  in  among  the  trees 
in  the  hope  of  satisfying  her  new-born  curiosity.  Try  as 
she  would,  she  never  could  get  any  but  disappointing  and 
partial  glimpses  of  a  house  which,  because  of  the  mystery 
of  its  setting,  fired  her  imagination,  started  her  to  wondering 
why  it  was  that  some  were  permitted  to  live  in  the  midst 
of  such  beauty  while  she  was  condemned  to  spend  her  days 
in  Fillmore  Street  and  the  prison  of  the  mill.  She  was  not 
even  allowed  to  look  at  it !  The  thought  was  like  a  cloud 
across  the  sun. 

However,  when  she  had  regained  the  tarvia  road  and 
walked  a  little  way  the  shadow  suddenly  passed,  and  she 


58  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

stood  surprised.  The  sight  of  a  long  common  with  its  an 
cient  trees  in  the  fullness  of  glory,  dense  maples,  sturdy 
oaks,  strong,  graceful  elms  that  cast  flickering,  lacy  shadows 
across  the  road  filled  her  with  satisfaction,  with  a  sense  of 
peace  deepened  by  the  awareness,  in  the  background,  ranged 
along  the  common  on  either  side,  of  stately,  dignified  build 
ings,  each  in  an  appropriate  frame  of  foliage.  With  the 
essence  rather  than  the  detail  of  all  this  her  consciousness 
became  steeped;  she  was  naturally  ignorant  of  the  great 
good  fortune  of  Silliston  Academy  of  having  been  spared  — 
with  one  or  two  exceptions  —  donations  during  those  artis 
tically  lean  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  when  American 
architecture  affected  the  Gothic,  the  Mansard,  and  the  sub 
sequent  hybrid.  She  knew  this  must  be  Silliston,  the  seat 
of  that  famous  academy  of  which  she  had  heard. 

The  older  school  buildings  and  instructors'  houses,  most 
of  them  white  or  creamy  yellow,  were  native  Colonial,  with 
tall,  graceful  chimneys  and  classic  pillars  and  delicate  bal 
ustrades,  eloquent  at  once  of  the  racial  inheritance  of  the 
Republic  and  of  a  bygone  individuality,  dignity,  and  pride. 
And  the  modern  architect,  of  whose  work  there  was  an  abund 
ance,  had  graciously  and  intuitively  held  this  earlier  note 
and  developed  it.  He  was  an  American,  but  an  American 
who  had  been  trained.  The  result  was  harmony,  life  as 
it  should  proceed,  the  new  growing  out  of  the  old.  And 
no  greater  tribute  can  be  paid  to  Janet  Bumpus  than  that 
it  pleased  her,  struck  and  set  exquisitely  vibrating  within 
her  responsive  chords.  For  the  first  time  in  her  adult  life 
she  stood  in  the  presence  of  tradition,  of  a  tradition  inher 
ently  if  unconsciously  the  innermost  reality  of  her  being: 
a  tradition  that  miraculously  was  not  dead,  since  after  all 
the  years  it  had  begun  to  put  forth  these  vigorous  shoots. . . . 

What  Janet  chiefly  realized  was  the  delicious,  contented 
sense  of  having  come,  visually  at  least,  to  the  home  for  which 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  59 

she  had  longed.  But  her  humour  was  that  of  a  child  who 
has  strayed,  to  find  its  true  dwelling  place  in  a  region  of 
beauty  hitherto  unexplored  and  unexperienced,  tinged,  there 
fore,  with  unreality,  with  mystery,  —  an  effect  enhanced  by 
the  chance  stillness  and  emptiness  of  the  place.  She  wan 
dered  up  and  down  the  Common,  whose  vivid  green  was 
starred  with  golden  dandelions ;.  and  then,  spying  the  arched 
and  shady  vista  of  a  lane,  entered  it,  bent  on  new  discoveries. 
It  led  past  one  of  the  newer  buildings,  the  library  —  as 
she  read  in  a  carved  inscription  over  the  door  —  plunged 
into  shade  again  presently  to  emerge  at  a  square  farmhouse, 
ancient  and  weathered,  with  a  great  square  chimney  thrust 
out  of  the  very  middle  of  the  ridge-pole,  —  a  landmark 
left  by  one  of  the  earliest  of  Silliston's  settlers.  Presiding 
over  it,  embracing  and  protecting  it,  was  a  splendid  tree. 
The  place  was  evidently  in  process  of  reconstruction  and 
repair,  the  roof  had  been  newly  shingled,  new  frames,  with 
old-fashioned,  tiny  panes  had  been  put  in  the  windows;  a 
little  garden  was  being  laid  out  under  the  sheltering  branches 
of  the  tree,  and  between  the  lane  and  the  garden,  half  fin 
ished,  was  a  fence  of  an  original  and  pleasing  design,  con 
sisting  of  pillars  placed  at  intervals  with  upright  pickets 
between,  the  pickets  sawed  in  curves,  making  a  line  that 
drooped  in  the  middle.  Janet  did  not  perceive  the  workman 
engaged  in  building  this  fence  until  the  sound  of  his  hammer 
attracted  her  attention.  His  back  was  bent,  he  was  absorbed 
in  his  task. 

"Are  there  any  stores  near  here?"  she  inquired. 

He  straightened  up.  "Why  yes/'  he  replied,  "come  to 
think  of  it,  I  have  seen  stores,  I'm  sure  I  have." 

Janet  laughed;  his  expression,  his  manner  of  speech 
were  so  delightfully  whimsical,  so  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  her  day,  and  he  seemed  to  accept  her  sudden  appearance 
in  the  precise  make-believe  humour  she  could  have  wished. 


60  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

And  yet  she  stood  a  little  struck  with  timidity,  puzzled  by 
the  contradictions  he  presented  of  youth  and  age,  of  shrewd 
ness,  experience  and  candour,  of  gentility  and  manual  toil. 
He  must  have  been  about  thirty-five;  he  was  hatless,  and 
his  hair,  uncombed  but  not  unkempt,  was  greying  at  the 
temples ;  his  eyes  —  which  she  noticed  particularly  — 
were  keen  yet  kindly,  the  irises  delicately  stencilled  in  a 
remarkable  blue ;  his  speech  was  colloquial  yet  cultivated, 
his  workman's  clothes  belied  his  bearing. 

"Yes,  there  are  stores,  in  the  village,"  he  went  on,  "but 
isn't  it  a  holiday,  or  Sunday  —  perhaps  —  or  something 
of  the  kind?" 

"It's  Decoration  Day,"  she  reminded  him,  with  deepening 
surprise. 

"  So  it  is !  And  all  the  storekeepers  have  gone  on  picnics 
in  their  automobiles,  or  else  they're  playing  golf.  No 
body's  working  to-day." 

"But  you  —  aren't  you  working?"  she  inquired. 

"  Working  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  suppose  some  people  would 
call  it  work.  I  —  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  that  way." 

"You  mean  —  you  like  it,"  Janet  was  inspired  to  say. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  confessed.     "I  suppose  I  do." 

Her  cheeks  dimpled.  If  her  wonder  had  increased,  her 
embarrassment  had  flown,  and  he  seemed  suddenly  an  old 
acquaintance.  She  had,  however,  profound  doubts  now  of 
his  being  a  carpenter. 

"Were  you  thinking  of  going  shopping?"  he  asked,  and 
at  the  very  ludicrousness  of  the  notion  she  laughed  again. 
She  discovered  a  keen  relish  for  this  kind  of  humour,  but  it 
was  new  to  her  experience,  and  she  could  not  cope  with  it. 

"  Only  to  buy  some  crackers,  or  a  sandwich,"  she  replied, 
and  blushed. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "Down  in  the  village,  on  the  corner 
where  the  cars  stop,  is  a  restaurant.  It's  not  as  good  as 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  61 

the  Parker  House  in  Boston,  I  believe,  but  they  do  have 
sandwiches,  yes,  and  coffee.  At  least  they  call  it  coffee." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  said. 

"You'd  better  wait  till  you  try  it,"  he  warned  her. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  I  don't  want  much."  And  she  was 
impelled  to  add  :  "  It's  such  a  beautiful  day." 

"It's  absurd  to  get  hungry  on  such  a  day  —  absurd,"  he 
agreed. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  she  laughed.  "I'm  not  really  hungry,  but 
I  haven't  time  to  get  back  to  Hampton  for  dinner."  Sud 
denly  she  grew  hot  at  the  thought  that  he  might  suspect 
her  of  hinting.  "You  see,  I  live  in  Hampton,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly,  "I'm  a  stenographer  there,  in  the  Chippering 
Mill,  and  I  was  just  out  for  a  walk,  and  —  I  came  farther 
than  I  intended."  She  had  made  it  worse. 

But  he  said,  "Oh,  you  came  from  Hampton!"  with  an 
intonation  of  surprise,  of  incredulity  even,  that  soothed 
and  even  amused  while  it  did  not  deceive  her.  Not  that  the 
superior  intelligence  of  which  she  had  begun  to  suspect  him 
had  been  put  to  any  real  test  by  the  discovery  of  her  home, 
and  she  was  quite  sure  her  modest  suit  of  blue  serge  and  her 
$2.99  pongee  blouse  proclaimed  her  as  a  working  girl  of  the 
mill  city.  "I've  been  to  Hampton,"  he  declared,  just  as 
though  it  were  four  thousand  miles  away  instead  of  four. 

"But  I've  never  been  here  before,  to  Silliston,"  she  re 
sponded  in  the  same  spirit :  and  she  added  wistfully,  "  it 
must  be  nice  to  live  in  such  a  beautiful  place  as  this !" 

"Yes,  it  is  nice,"  he  agreed.  "We  have  our  troubles, 
too,  —  but  it's  nice." 

She  ventured  a  second,  appraising  glance.  His  head, 
which  he  carried  a  little  flung  back,  his  voice,  his  easy  and 
confident  bearing  —  all  these  contradicted  the  saw  and  the 
hamiter,  the  flannel  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  the  khaki 
trousers  still  bearing  the  price  tag.  And  curiosity  begin- 


62  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

ning  to  get  the  better  of  her,  she  was  emboldened  to  pay  a 
compliment  to  the  fence.  If  one  had  to  work,  it  must  be  a 
pleasure  to  work  on  things  pleasing  to  the  eye  —  such  was 
her  inference. 

"Why,  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  he  said  heartily.  "I  was 
just  hoping  some  one  would  come  along  here  and  admire 
it.  Now  —  what  colour  would  you  paint  it?" 

"Are  you  a  painter,  too?" 

"After  a  fashion.  I'm  a  sort  of  man  of  all  work  —  I 
thought  of  painting  it  white,  with  the  pillars  green." 

"I  think  that  would  be  pretty,"  she  answered,  judicially, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "What  else  can  you  do?" 

He  appeared  to  be  pondering  his  accomplishments. 

"Well,  I  can  doctor  trees,"  he  said,  pointing  an  efficient 
finger  at  the  magnificent  maple  sheltering,  like  a  guardian 
deity,  the  old  farmhouse.  "I  put  in  those  patches." 

"They're  cement,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  never  heard  of 
putting  cement  in  trees." 

"They  don't  seem  to  mind." 

"Are  the  holes  very  deep?" 

"Pretty  deep." 

"But  I  should  think  the  tree  would  be  dead." 

"Well,  you  see  the  life  of  a  tree  is  right  under  the  bark. 
If  you  can  keep  the  outer  covering  intact,  the  tree  will  live." 

"Why  did  you  let  the  holes  get  so  deep?" 

"  I've  just  come  here.  The  house  was  like  the  tree  — 
the  shingles  all  rotten,  but  the  beams  were  sound.  Those 
beams  were  hewn  out  of  the  forest  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago." 

"Gracious!"  said  Janet.     "And  how  old  is  the  tree?" 

"I  should  say  about  a  hundred.  I  suppose  it  wouldn't 
care  to  admit  it." 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  inquired. 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  intimate  with  trees.    I  find  out  their  secrets." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  63 

"It's  your  house!"  she  exclaimed,  somewhat  appalled 
by  the  discovery. 

"Yes  —  yes  it  is,"  he  answered,  looking  around  at  it  and 
then  in  an  indescribably  comical  manner  down  at  his  clothes. 
His  gesture,  his  expression  implied  that  her  mistake  was  a 
most  natural  one. 

"Excuse  me,  I  thought — "  she  began,  blushing  hotly, 
yet  wanting  to  laugh  again. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  —  why  shouldn't  you  ?  "  he  interrupted 
her.  "I  haven't  got  used  to  it  yet,  and  there  is  something 
amusing  about  —  my  owning  a  house.  When  the  par 
lour's  finished  I'll  have  to  wear  a  stiff  collar,  I  suppose,  in 
order  to  live  up  to  it." 

Her  laughter  broke  forth,  and  she  tried  to  imagine  him 
in  a  stiff  collar.  ...  But  she  was  more  perplexed  than  ever. 
She  stood  balancing  on  one  foot,  poised  for  departure. 

"I  ought  to  be  going,"  she  said,  as  though  she  had  been 
paying  him  a  formal  visit. 

"Don't  hurry,"  he  protested  cordially.  "\Vhy  hurry 
back  to  Hampton?" 

"I  never  want  to  go  back!"  she  cried  with  a  vehemence 
that  caused  him  to  contemplate  her  anew,  suddenly  reveal 
ing  the  intense,  passionate  quality  which  had  so  disturbed 
Mr.  Ditmar.  She  stood  transformed.  "I  hate  it!"  she 
declared.  "It's  so  ugly,  I  never  want  to  see  it  again." 

"Yes,  it  is  ugly,"  he  confessed.  "Since  you  admit  it,  I 
don't  mind  saying  so.  But  it's  interesting,  in  a  way." 
Though  his  humorous  moods  had  delighted  her,  she  felt 
subtly  flattered  because  he  had  grown  more  serious. 

"It  is  interesting,"  she  agreed.  She  was  almost  im 
pelled  to  tell  him  why,  in  her  excursions  to  the  various  quar 
ters,  she  had  found  Hampton  interesting,  but  a  shyness 
born  of  respect  for  the  store  of  knowledge  she  divined  in 
him  restrained  her.  She  was  curious  to  know  what  this  man 


64  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

saw  in  Hampton.  His  opinion  would  be  worth  something. 
Unlike  her  neighbours  in  Fillmore  Street,  he  was  not  what 
her  sister  Lise  would  call  "nutty";  he  had  an  air  of  fine 
sanity,  of  freedom,  of  detachment,  —  though  the  word  did 
not  occur  to  her;  he  betrayed  no  bitter  sense  of  injustice, 
and  his  beliefs  were  uncoloured  by  the  obsession  of  a  single 
panacea.  "Why  do  you  think  it's  interesting?"  she  de 
manded. 

"Well,  I'm  always  expecting  to  hear  that  it's  blown  up. 
It  reminds  me  of  nitro-glycerine,"  he  added,  smiling. 

She  repeated  the  word. 

"  An  explosive,  you  know  —  they  put  it  in  dynamite. 
They  say  a  man  once  made  it  by  accident,  and  locked  up 
his  laboratory  and  ran  home  —  and  never  went  back." 

"I  know  what  you  mean!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  alight 
with  excitement.  "All  those  foreigners!  I've  felt  it  — 
that  something  would  happen,  some  day,  it  frightened  me, 
and  yet  I  wished  that  something  would  happen.  Only,  I 
never  would  have  thought  of  —  nitro-glycerine:" 

She  was  unaware  of  the  added  interest  in  his  regard. 
But  he  answered  lightly  enough  :  — 

"Oh,  not  only  the  foreigners.  Human  chemicals  —  you 
can't  play  with  human  chemicals  any  more  than  you  can 
play  with  real  ones  —  you've  got  to  know  something  about 
chemistry." 

This  remark  was  beyond  her  depth. 

"Who  is  playing  with  them?"  she  asked. 

"  Everybody  —  no  one  in  particular.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  much  about  them,  yet,"  he  replied,  and  seemed  dis 
inclined  to  pursue  the  subject.  A  robin  with  a  worm  in  its 
bill  was  hopping  across  the  grass;  he  whistled  softly,  the 
bird  stopped,  cocking  its  head  and  regarding  them.  Sud 
denly,  in  conflict  with  her  desire  to  remain  indefinitely 
talking  with  this  strange  man,  Janet  felt  an  intense  impulse 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  65 

to  leave.  She  could  bear  the  conversation  no  longer,  she 
might  burst  into  tears  —  such  was  the  extraordinary  effect 
he  had  produced  on  her. 

"  I  must  go,  —  I'm  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you/'  she  said. 

"  Drop  in  again,"  he  said,  as  he  took  her  trembling  hand 

When  she  had  walked  a  little  way  she  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder  to  see  him  leaning  idly  against  the  post,  gazing 
after  her,  and  waving  his  hammer  in  friendly  fashion. 

For  a  while  her  feet  fairly  flew,  and  her  heart  beat  tumul- 
tuously,  keeping  tune  with  her  racing  thoughts.  She 
walked  about  the  Common,  seeing  nothing,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  passers-by,  who  glanced  at  her  curiously. 
But  at  length  as  she  grew  calmer  the  needs  of  a  youthful 
and  vigorous  body  became  imperative,  and  realizing  sud 
denly  that  she  was  tired  and  hungry,  sought  and  found  the 
little  restaurant  in  the  village  below.  She  journeyed  back 
to  Hampton  pondering  what  this  man  had  said  to  her; 
speculating,  rather  breathlessly,  whether  he  had  been  im 
pelled  to  conversation  by  a  natural  kindness  and  courtesy, 
or  whether  he  really  had  discovered  something  in  her  worthy 
of  addressing,  as  he  implied.  Resentment  burned  in  her 
breast,  she  became  suddenly  blinded  by  tears :  she  might 
never  see  him  again,  and  if  only  she  were  "educated"  she 
might  know  him,  become  his  friend.  Even  in  this  desire 
she  was  not  conventional,  and  in  the  few  moments  of  their 
contact  he  had  developed  rather  than  transformed  what 
she  meant  by  "education."  She  thought  of  it  not  as  knowl 
edge  reeking  of  books  and  schools,  but  as  the  acquirement 
of  the  freemasonry  which  he  so  evidently  possessed,  — 
.existence  on  terms  of  understanding,  confidence,  and  freedom 
with  nature ;  as  having  the  world  open  up  to  one  like  a  flower 
filled  with  colour  and  life.  She  thought  of  the  robin,  of  the 
tree  whose  secrets  he  had  learned,  of  a  mental  range  in 
cluding  even  that  medley  of  human  beings  amongst  whom  she 


66  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

lived.  And  the  fact  that  something  of  his  meaning  had 
eluded  her  grasp  made  her  rebel  all  the  more  bitterly  against 
the  lack  of  a  greater  knowledge.  .  .  . 

Often  during  the  weeks  that  followed  he  dwelt  in  her 
mind  as  she  sat  at  her  desk  and  stared  out  across  the  river, 
and  several  times  that  summer  she  started  to  walk  to  Sil- 
liston.  But  always  she  turned  back.  Perhaps  she  feared 
to  break  the  charm  of  that  memory.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IV 


OUR  American  climate  is  notoriously  capricious.  Even 
as  Janet  trudged  homeward  on  that  Memorial  Day  afternoon 
from  her  Cinderella-like  adventure  in  Silliston  the  sun  grew 
hot,  the  air  lost  its  tonic,  becoming  moist  and  tepid,  white 
clouds  with  dark  edges  were  piled  up  in  the  western  sky. 
The  automobiles  of  the  holiday  makers  swarmed  ceaselessly 
over  the  tarvia.  Valiantly  as  she  strove  to  cling  to  her 
dream,  remorseless  reality  was  at  work  dragging  her  back, 
reclaiming  her ;  excitement  and  physical  exercise  drained  her 
vitality,  her  feet  were  sore,  sadness  invaded  her  as  she  came 
in  view  of  the  ragged  outline  of  the  city  she  had  left  so  joy 
fully  in  the  morning.  Summer,  that  most  depressing  of 
seasons  in  an  environment  of  drab  houses  and  grey  pave 
ments,  was  at  hand,  listless  householders  and  their  families 
were  already  seeking  refuge  on  front  steps  she  passed  on  her 
way  to  Fillmore  Street. 

It  was  about  half  past  five  when  she  arrived.  Lise,  her 
waist  removed,  was  seated  in  a  rocking  chair  at  the  window 
overlooking  the  littered  yards  and  the  backs  of  the  tenements 
on  Rutger  Street.  And  Lise,  despite  the  heaviness  of  the 
air,  was  dreaming.  Of  such  delicate  texture  was  the  fabric 
of  Janet's  dreams  that  not  only  sordid  reality,  but  contact 
with  other  dreams  of  a  different  nature,  such  as  her  sister's, 
often  sufficed  to  dissolve  them.  She  resented,  for  instance, 
the  presence  in  the  plush  oval  of  Mr.  Eustace  Arlington,  the 
movie  star  whose  likeness  had  replaced  Mr.  Wiley's,  and  who 

67 


68  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

had  played  the  part  of  the  western  hero  in  "Leila  of  Haw- 
trey's."  With  his  burning  eyes  and  sensual  face  betraying 
the  puffiness  that  comes  from  over-indulgence,  he  was  not 
Janet's  ideal  of  a  hero,  western  or  otherwise.  And  now  Lise 
was  holding  a  newspaper :  not  the  Banner,  whose  provincial 
ity  she  scorned,  but  a  popular  Boston  sheet  to  be  had  for  a 
cent,  printed  at  ten  in  the  morning  and  labelled  "Three 
O'clock  Edition,"  with  huge  red  headlines  stretched  across 
the  top  of  the  page  :  — 

"JURY  FINDS  IN  Miss  NEALY'S  FAVOR." 

As  Janet  entered  Lise  looked  up  and  exclaimed :  — 

"Say,  that  Nealy  girl's  won  out!" 

"Who  is  she?"  Janet  inquired  listlessly. 

"You  are  from  the  country,  all  right,"  was  her  sister's 
rejoinder.  "I  would  have  bet  there  wasn't  a  Reub  in  the 
state  that  wasn't  wise  to  the  Ferris  breach  of  promise  case, 
and  here  you  blow  in  after  the  show's  over  and  want  to  know 
who  Nelly  Nealy  is.  If  that  doesn't  beat  the  band !" 

"This  woman  sued  a  man  named  Ferris  —  is  that  it?" 

"A  man  named  Ferris!"  Lise  repeated,  with  the  air  of 
being  appalled  by  her  sister's  ignorance.  "I  guess  you 
never  heard  of  Ferris,  either —  the  biggest  copper  man  in 
Boston.  He  could  buy  Hampton,  and  never  feel  it,  and  they 
say  his  house  in  Brighton  cost  half  a  million  dollars.  Nelly 
Nealy  put  her  damages  at  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
and  stung  him  for  seventy  five.  I  wish  I'd  been  in  court 
when  that  jury  came  back !  There's  her  picture." 

To  Janet,  especially  in  the  mood  of  reaction  in  which 
she  found  herself  that  evening,  Lise's  intense  excitement, 
passionate  partisanship  and  approval  of  Miss  Nealy  were 
incomprehensible,  repellent.  However,  she  took  the  sheet, 
gazing  at  the  image  of  the  lady  who,  recently  an  obscure 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  69 

stenographer,  had  suddenly  leaped  into  fame  and  become  a 
"  headliner,"  the  envied  of  thousands  of  working  girls  all 
over  New  England.  Miss  Nealy,  in  spite  of  the  "glare  of 
publicity"  she  deplored,  had  borne  up  admirably  under 
the  strain,  and  evidently  had  been  able  to  consume  three 
meals  a  day  and  give  some  thought  to  her  costumes.  Her 
smile  under  the  picture  hat  was  coquettish,  if  not  bold. 
The  special  article,  signed  by  a  lady  reporter  whose  sym 
pathies  were  by  no  means  concealed  and  whose  talents  were 
given  free  rein,  related  how  the  white-haired  mother  had 
wept  tears  of  joy ;  how  Miss  Xealy  herself  had  been  awhile 
too  overcome  to  speak,  and  then  had  recovered  sufficiently 
to  express  her  gratitude  to  the  twelve  gentlemen  who  had 
vindicated  the  honour  of  American  womanhood.  Mr. 
Ferris,  she  reiterated,  was  a  brute;  never  as  long  as  she 
lived  would  she  be  able  to  forget  how  she  had  loved  and 
believed  in  him,  and  how,  when  at  length  she  unwillingly 
became  convinced  of  his  perfidy,  she  had  been  "prostrated," 
unable  to  support  her  old  mother.  She  had  not,  naturally, 
yet  decided  how  she  would  invest  her  fortune;  as  for 
going  on  the  stage,  that  had  been  suggested,  but  she  had 
made  no  plans.  "Scores  of  women  sympathizers"  had  es 
corted  her  to  a  waiting  automobile.  .  .  . 

Janet,  impelled  by  the  fascination  akin  to  disgust,  read 
thus  far,  and  flinging  the  newspaper  on  the  floor,  began  to 
tidy  herself  for  supper.  But  presently,  when  she  heard 
Lise  sigh,  she  could  contain  herself  no  longer. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  read  such  stuff  as  that,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  It's  —  it's  horrible." 

"Horrible?"  Lise  repeated. 

Janet  swung  round  from  the  washbasin,  her  hands  dripping. 

"Instead  of  getting  seventy  five  thousand  dollars  she 
ought  to  be  tarred  and  feathered.  She's  nothing  but  a  black 
mailer." 


70  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Lise,  aroused  from  her  visions,  demanded  vehemently: 
"Ain't  he  a  millionaire?" 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  "  Janet  retorted.  "  And 
you  can't  tell  me  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  up  to  all 
along  —  with  that  face." 

"I'd  have  sued  him,  all  right,"  declared  Lise,  defiantly. 

"Then  you'd  be  a  blackmailer,  too.  I'd  sooner  scrub 
floors,  I'd  sooner  starve  than  do  such  a  thing  —  take  money 
for  my  affections.  In  the  first  place,  I'd  have  more  pride, 
and  in  the  second  place,  if  I  really  loved  a  man,  seventy 
five  thousand  or  seventy  five  million  dollars  wouldn't  help 
me  any.  Where  do  you  get  such  ideas?  Decent  people 
don't  have  them." 

Janet  turned  to  the  basin  again  and  began  rubbing  her 
face  vigorously  —  ceasing  for  an  instance  to  make  sure  of 
the  identity  of  a  sound  reaching  her  ears  despite  the  splash 
ing  of  water.  Lise  was  sobbing.  Janet  dried  her  face 
and  hands,  arranged  her  hair,  and  sat  down  on  the  window- 
sill  ;  the  scorn  and  anger,  which  had  been  so  intense  as  com 
pletely  to  possess  her,  melting  into  a  pity  and  contempt 
not  unmixed  with  bewilderment.  Ordinarily  Lise  was  hard, 
impervious  to  such  reproaches,  holding  her  own  in  the  pas 
sionate  quarrels  that  occasionally  took  place  between  them : 
yet  there  were  times,  such  as  this,  when  her  resistance 
broke  down  unexpectedly,  and  she  lost  all  self  control. 
She  rocked  to  and  fro  in  the  chair,  her  shoulders  bowed, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  Janet  reached  out  and 
touched  her. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  she  began,  rather  sharply,  "just  because 
I  said  it  was  a  disgrace  to  have  such  ideas.  Well,  it  is." 

"I'm  not  silly,"  said  Lise.  "I'm  sick  of  that  job  at 
the  Bagatelle  -  "  sob  —  "there's  nothing  in  it  —  I'm  going 
to  quit  —  I  wish  to  God  I  was  dead  !  Standing  on  your  feet 
all  day  till  you're  wore  out  for  six  dollars  a  week  —  what's 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  71 

there  in  it ?"  —  sob  —  "With  that  guy  Walters  who  walks 
the  floor  never  lettin'  up  on  you.  He  come  up  to  me  yester 
day  and  says,  'I  didn't  know  you  was  near  sighted,  Miss 
Bumpus'  —  just  because  there  was  a  customer  Annie  Hatch 
was  too  lazy  to  wait  on"  —  sob  —  "That's  his  line  of  dope 
—  thinks  he's  sarcastic  —  and  he's  sweet  on  Annie.  To 
morrow  I'm  going  to  tell  him  to  go  to  hell.  I'm  through  — 
I'm  sick  of  it,  I  tell  you"  —  sob  —  "I'd  rather  be  dead  than 
slave  like  that  for  six  dollars." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Janet. 

"I  don't  know  —  I  don't  care.  WTiat's  the  difference? 
any  place'd  be  better  than  this."  For  awhile  she  continued 
to  cry  on  a  ridiculously  high,  though  subdued,  whining  note, 
her  breath  catching  at  intervals.  A  feeling  of  helplessness, 
of  utter  desolation  crept  over  Janet ;  powerless  to  comfort 
herself,  how  could  she  comfort  her  sister?  She  glanced 
around  the  familiar,  sordid  room,  at  the  magazine  pages 
against  the  faded  wall-paper,  at  the  littered  bureau  and  the 
littered  bed,  over  which  Lise's  clothes  were  flung.  _It  was 
hot  and  close  even  now,  in  summer  it  would  be  stifling. 
Suddenly  a  flash  of  sympathy  revealed  to  her  a  glimpse  of 
the  truth  that  Lise,  too,  after  her  own  nature,  sought  beauty 
and  freedom !  Xever  did  she  come  as  near  comprehending 
Lise  as  in  such  moments  as  this,  and  when,  on  dark  winter 
mornings,  her  sister  clung  to  her,  terrified  by  the  siren. 
Lise  was  a  child,  and  the  thought  that  she,  Janet,  was 
powerless  to  change  her  was  a  part  of  the  tragic  tenderness. 
What  would  become  of  Lise?  And  what  would  become  of 
her,  Janet?  ...  So  she  clung,  desperately,  to  her  sister's 
hand  until  at  last  Lise  roused  herself,  her  hair  awry,  her  face 
puckered  and  wet  with  tears  and  perspiration. 

"I  can't  stand  it  any  more  —  I've  just  got  to  go  away  — 
anywhere,"  she  said,  and  the  cry  found  an  echo  in  Janet's 
heart. 


72  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

But  the  next  morning  Lise  went  back  to  the  Bagatelle, 
and  Janet  to  the  mill. 


The  fact  that  Lise's  love  affairs  had  not  been  prospering 
undoubtedly  had  something  to  do  with  the  fit  of  depression 
into  which  she  had  fallen  that  evening.  A  month  or  so  before 
she  had  acquired  another  beau.  It  was  understood  by 
Lise's  friends  and  Lise's  family,  though  not  by  the  gentle 
man  himself,  that  his  position  was  only  temporary  or  at 
most  probationary ;  he  had  not  even  succeeded  to  the  rights, 
title,  and  privileges  of  the  late  Mr.  Wiley,  though  occupying 
a  higher  position  in  the  social  scale  —  being  the  agent  of 
a  patent  lawn  sprinkler  with  an  office  in  Faber  Street. 

"  Stick  to  him  and  you'll  wear  diamonds  —  that's  what  he 
tries  to  put  across,"  was  Lise's  comment  on  Mr.  Frear's 
method,  and  thus  Janet  gained  the  impression  that  her 
sister's  feelings  were  not  deeply  involved.  "If  I  thought 
he'd  make  good  with  the  sprinkler  I  might  talk  business. 
But  say,  he's  one  of  those  ginks  that's  always  tryin'  to 
beat  the  bank.  He's  never  done  a  day's  work  in  his  life. 
Last  year  he  was  passing  around  Foley's  magazine,  and  before 
that  he  was  with  the  race  track  that  went  out  of  business 
because  the  ministers  got  nutty  over  it.  Well,  he  may  win 
out,"  she  addeid  reflectively,  "those  guys  sometimes  do  put 
the  game  on  the  blink.  He  sure  is  a  good  spender  when  the 
orders  come  in,  with  a  line  of  talk  to  make  you  holler  for 
mercy." 

Mr.  Frear's  "line  of  talk"  came  wholly,  astonishingly, 
from  one  side  of  his  mouth  —  the  left  side.  As  a  muscular 
feat  it  was  a  triumph.  A  deaf  person  on  his  right  side  would 
not  have  known  he  was  speaking.  The  effect  was  secretive, 
extraordinarily  confidential ;  enabling  him  to  sell  sprinklers, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  73 

it  ought  to  have  helped  him  to  make  love,  so  distinctly 
personal  was  it,  implying  as  it  did  that  the  individual  ad 
dressed  was  alone  of  all  the  world  worthy  of  consideration. 
Among  his  friends  it  was  regarded  as  an  accomplishment, 
but  Lise  was  critical,  especially  since  he  did  not  look  into 
one's  eyes,  but  gazed  off  into  space,  as  though  he  weren't 
talking  at  all. 

She  had  once  inquired  if  the  right  side  of  his  face  was 
paralyzed. 

She  permitted  him  to  take  her,  however,  to  Gruber's 
Cafe,  to  the  movies,  and  one  or  two  select  dance  halls,  and 
to  Slattery's  Riverside  Park,  where  one  evening  she  had 
encountered  the  rejected  Mr.  Wiley. 

"Say,  he  was  sore!"  she  told  Janet  the  next  morning, 
relating  the  incident  with  relish,  "for  two  cents  he  would 
have  knocked  Charlie  over  the  ropes.  I  guess  he  could  do  it, 
too,  all  right." 

Janet  found  it  curious  that  Lise  should  display  such 
vindictiveness  toward  Mr.  Wiley,  who  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  She  was  moved  to  inquire  after  his 
welfare. 

"He's  got  one  of  them  red  motorcycles,"  said  Lise.     "He 
was  gay  with  it  too  —  when  we  was  waiting  for  the  boulevard 
trolley  he  opened  her  up  and  went  right  between  Charlie  and 
me.     I  had  to  laugh.     He's  got  a  job  over  in  Haverhill  - 
you  can't  hold  that  guy  under  water  long." 

Apparently  Lise  had  no  regrets.  But  her  premonitions 
concerning  Mr.  Frear  proved  to  be  justified.  He  did  not 
"make  good."  One  morning  the  little  office  on  Faber  Street 
where  the  sprinklers  were  displayed  was  closed,  Hampton 
knew  him  no  more,  and  the  police  alone  were  sincerely  re 
gretful.  It  seemed  that  of  late  he  had  been  keeping  all 
the  money  for  the  sprinklers,  and  spending  a  good  deal  of 
it  on  Lise.  At  the  time  she  accepted  the  affair  with  stoical 


74  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

pessimism,  as  one  who  has  learned  what  to  expect  of  the 
world,  though  her  moral  sense  was  not  profoundly  disturbed 
by  the  reflection  that  she  had  indulged  in  the  delights  of 
Slattery's  and  Gruber's  and  a  Sunday  at  "the  Beach"  at 
the  expense  of  the  Cascade  Sprinkler  Company  of  Boston. 
Mr.  Frear  inconsiderately  neglected  to  prepare  her  for  his 
departure,  the  news  of  which  was  conveyed  to  her  in  a  singular 
manner,  and  by  none  other  than  Mr.  Johnny  Tiernan  of  the 
tin  shop,  —  their  conversation  throwing  some  light,  not 
only  on  Lise's  sophistication,  but  on  the  admirable  and  intri 
cate  operation  of  Hampton's  city  government.  About  five 
o'clock  Lise  was  coming  home  along  Fillmore  Street  after 
an  uneventful,  tedious  and  manless  holiday  spent  in  the 
company  of  Miss  Schuler  and  other  friends  when  she  per 
ceived  Mr.  Tiernan  seated  on  his  steps,  grinning  and  waving 
a  tattered  palm-leaf  fan. 

" The  mercury  is  sure  on  the  jump,"  he  observed.  "  You'd 
think  it  was  July." 

And  Lise  agreed. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  going  to  Tim  Slattery's  place  to 
night,"  he  went  on.  "It's  the  coolest  spot  this  side  of  the 
Atlantic  Ocean." 

There  was,  apparently,  nothing  cryptic  in  this  remark, 
yet  it  is  worth  noting  that  Lise  instantly  became  suspi 
cious. 

"Why  would  I  be  going  out  there?"  she  inquired  inno 
cently,  darting  at  him  a  dark,  coquettish  glance. 

Mr.  Tiernan  regarded  her  guilelessly,  but  there  was 
admiration  in  his  soul;  not  because  of  her  unquestioned 
feminine  attractions,  —  he  being  somewhat  amazingly  proof 
against  such  things,  —  but  because  it  was  conveyed  to  him 
in  some  unaccountable  way  that  her  suspicions  were  aroused. 
The  brain  beneath  that  corkscrew  hair  was  worthy  of  a 
Richelieu.  Mr.  Tiernan's  estimate  of  Miss  Lise  Bumpus, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  75 

if  he  could  have  been  induced  to  reveal  it,  would  have  been 
worth  listening  to. 

"And  why  wouldn't  you?"  he  replied  heartily.  "Don't 
I  see  all  the  pretty  young  ladies  out  there,  including  your 
self,  and  you  dancing  with  the  Cascade  man.  Why  is  it 
you'll  never  give  me  a  dance?" 

"Why  is  it  you  never  ask  me?"  demanded  Lise. 

"  What  chance  have  I  got,  against  him  ?  " 

"He  don't  own  me,"  said  Lise. 

Mr.  Tiernan  threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed. 

"Well,  if  you're  there  to-night,  tangoin'  with  him  and  I 
come  up  and  says,  'Miss  Bumpus,  the  pleasure  is  mine,' 
I'm  wondering  what  would  happen." 

"I'm  not  going  to  Slattery's  to-night,"  she  declared  — 
having  that  instant  arrived  at  this  conclusion. 

"And  where  then?  I'll  come  along,  if  there's  a  chance 
for  me." 

"Quit  your  kidding,"  Lise  reproved  him. 

Mr.  Tiernan  suddenly  looked  very  solemn. 

"Kidding,  is  it?  Me  kiddin'  you?  Give  me  a  chance, 
that's  all  I'm  asking.  W'here  will  you  be,  now?" 

"Is  Frear  wanted?"  she  demanded. 

Mr.  Tiernan's  expression  changed.  His  nose  seemed  to 
become  more  pointed,  his  eyes  to  twinkle  more  merrily  than 
ever.  He  didn't  take  the  trouble,  now,  to  conceal  his 
admiration. 

"Sure,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said,  "if  you  was  a  man,  we'd 
have  you  on  the  force  to-morrow." 

"WTiat's  he  wanted  for?" 

"Well,"  said  Johnny,  "a  little  matter  of  sprinklin'.  He's 
been  sprinklin'  his  company's  water  without  a  license." 

She  was  silent  a  moment  before  she  exclaimed :  — 

"I  ought  to  have  been  wise  that  he  was  a  crook!" 

"Well,"  said  Johnny  consolingly,  "there's  others  that  ought 


76  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  have  been  wise,  too.  The  Cascade  people  had  no  business 
takin'  on  a  man  that  couldn't  use  but  half  of  his  mouth." 

This  seemed  to  Lise  a  reflection  on  her  judgment.  She 
proceeded  to  clear  herself. 

"  He  was  nothing  to  me.  He  never  gave  me  no  rest.  He 
used  to  come  'round  and  pester  me  to  go  out  with  him  — " 

"Sure!"  interrupted  Mr.  Tiernan.  "Don't  I  know  how 
it  is  with  the  likes  of  him !  A  good  time's  a  good  time,  and 
no  harm  in  it.  But  the  point  is  — "  and  here  he  cocked  his 
nose  —  "  the  point  is,  where  is  he  ?  Where  will  he  be  to 
night?" 

All  at  once  Lise  grew  vehement,  almost  tearful. 

"I  don't  know  — honest  to  God,  I  don't.  If  I  did  I'd 
tell  you.  Last  night  he  said  he  might  be  out  of  town.  He 
didn't  say  where  he  was  going."  She  fumbled  in  her  bag, 
drawing  out  an  imitation  lace  handkerchief  and  pressing  it 
to  her  eyes. 

"  There  now ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Tiernan,  soothingly.  "  How 
would  you  know?  And  he  deceivin'  you  like  he  did  the 
company  — 

"He  didn't  deceive  me,"  cried  Lise. 

"Listen,"  said  Mr.  Tiernan,  who  had  risen  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm.  " It's  not  young  ladies  like  you  that  works 
and  are  self-respecting  that  any  one  would  be  troublin',  and 
you  the  daughter  of  such  a  fine  man  as  your  father.  Run 
along,  now,  I  won't  be  detaining  you,  Miss  Bumpus,  and 
you'll  accept  my  apology.  I  guess  we'll  never  see  him  in 
Hampton  again.  ..." 

Some  twenty  minutes  later  he  sauntered  down  the  street, 
saluting  acquaintances,  and  threading  his  way  across  the 
Common  entered  a  grimy  brick  building  where  a  huge  police 
man  with  an  insignia  on  his  arm  was  seated  behind  a  desk. 
Mr.  Tiernan  leaned  on  the  desk,  and  reflectively  lighted  a 
Thomas-Jefferson-Five-Cent  Cigar,  Union  Label,  the  excel- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  77 

lencies  of  which  were  set  forth  on  large  signs  above  the 
"ten  foot"  buildings  on  Faber  Street. 

"She  don't  know  nothing,  Mike,"  he  remarked.  "I 
guess  he  got  wise  this  morning." 

The  sergeant  nodded.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  V 

1 

To  feel  potential  within  one's  self  the  capacity  to  live 
and  yet  to  have  no  means  of  realizing  this  capacity  is  doubt 
less  one  of  the  least  comfortable  and  agreeable  of  human 
experiences.  Such,  as  summer  came  on,  was  Janet's  case. 
The  memory  of  that  visit  to  Silliston  lingered  in  her  mind, 
sometimes  to  flare  up  so  vividly  as  to  make  her  existence 
seem  unbearable.  How  wonderful,  she  thought,  to  be  able 
to  dwell  in  such  a  beautiful  place,  to  have  as  friends  and 
companions  such  amusing  and  intelligent  people  as  the 
stranger  with  whom  she  had  talked !  Were  all  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Silliston  like  him?  They  must  be,  since  it  was  a 
seat  of  learning.  Lise's  cry,  "  I've  just  got  to  go  away,  any 
where,"  found  an  echo  in  Janet's  soul.  Why  shouldn't  she 
go  away?  She  was  capable  of  taking  care  of  herself,  she 
was  a  good  stenographer,  her  salary  had  been  raised  twice 
in  two  years,  —  why  should  she  allow  consideration  for  her 
family  to  stand  in  the  way  of  what  she  felt  would  be  self 
realization?  Unconsciously  she  was  a  true  modern  in  that 
the  virtues  known  as  duty  and  self  sacrifice  did  not  appeal 
to  her,  —  she  got  from  them  neither  benefit  nor  satisfaction, 
she  understood  instinctively  that  they  were  impeding  to 
growth.  Unlike  Lise,  she  was  able  to  see  life  as  it  is,  she 
did  not  expect  of  it  miracles,  economic  or  matrimonial. 
Nothing  would  happen  unless  she  made  it  happen.  She  was 
twenty-one,  earning  nine  dollars  a  week,  of  which  she  now 
contributed  five  to  the  household,  —  her  father,  with  char- 

78 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  79 

acteristic  incompetence,  having  taken  out  a  larger  insurance 
policy  than  he  could  reasonably  carry.  Of  the  remaining 
four  dollars  she  spent  more  than  one  on  lunches,  there  were 
dresses  and  underclothing,  shoes  and  stockings  to  buy,  in 
spite  of  darning  and  mending;  little  treats  with  Eda  that 
mounted  up ;  and  occasionally  the  dentist  —  for  Janet  would 
not  neglect  her  teeth  as  Lise  neglected  hers.  She  managed 
to  save  something,  but  it  was  very  little.  And  she  was 
desperately  unhappy  when  she  contemplated  the  grey  and 
monotonous  vista  of  the  years  ahead,  saw  herself  growing 
older  and  older,  driven  always  by  the  stern  necessity  of 
accumulating  a  margin  against  possible  disasters;  little  by 
little  drying  up,  losing,  by  withering  disuse,  those  rich 
faculties  of  enjoyment  with  which  she  was  endowed,  and 
which  at  once  fascinated  and  frightened  her.  Marriage,  in 
such  an  environment,  offered  no  solution;  marriage  meant 
dependence,  from  which  her  very  nature  revolted :  and  in 
her  existence,  drab  and  necessitous  though  it  were,  was  still 
a  remnant  of  freedom  that  marriage  would  compel  her  to 
surrender.  .  .  . 

One  warm  evening,  oppressed  by  such  reflections,  she 
had  started  home  when  she  remembered  having  left  her  bag  in 
the  office,  and  retraced  her  steps.  As  she  turned  the  corner 
of  West  Street,  she  saw,  beside  the  canal  and  directly  in 
front  of  the  bridge,  a  new  and  smart-looking  automobile, 
painted  crimson  and  black,  of  the  type  known  as  a  runabout, 
which  she  recognized  as  belonging  to  Mr.  Ditmar.  Indeed, 
at  that  moment  Mr.  Ditmar  himself  was  stepping  off  the  end 
of  the  bridge  and  about  to  start  the  engine  when,  dropping 
the  crank,  he  walked  to  the  dashboard  and  apparently  be 
came  absorbed  in  some  mechanisms  there.  Was  it  the  glance 
cast  in  her  direction  that  had  caused  him  to  delay  his  de 
parture?  Janet  was  seized  by  a  sudden  and  rather  absurd 
desire  to  retreat,  but  Canal  Street  being  empty,  such  an 


80  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

action  would  appear  eccentric,  and  she  came  slowly  forward, 
pretending  not  to  see  her  employer,  ridiculing  to  herself 
the  idea  that  he  had  noticed  her.  Much  to  her  annoyance, 
however,  her  embarrassment  persisted,  and  she  knew  it  was 
due  to  the  memory  of  certain  incidents,  each  in  itself  almost 
negligible,  but  cumulatively  amounting  to  a  suspicion  that 
for  some  months  he  had  been  aware  of  her :  many  times 
when  he  had  passed  through  the  outer  office  she  had  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her,  had  been  impelled  to  look  up  from  her 
work  to  surprise  in  them  a  certain  glow  to  make  her  bow  her 
head  again  in  warm  confusion.  Now,  as  she  approached 
him,  she  was  pleasantly  but  rather  guiltily  conscious  of  the 
more  rapid  beating  of  the  blood  that  precedes  an  adventure, 
yet  sufficiently  self-possessed  to  note  the  becoming  nature 
of  the  light  flannel  suit  and  rather  rakish  Panama  he  had 
pushed  back  from  his  forehead.  It  was  not  until  she  had 
almost  passed  him  that  he  straightened  up,  lifted  the  Panama, 
tentatively,  and  not  too  far,  startling  her. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said.  "I  thought 
you  had  gone." 

"I  left  my  bag  in  the  office,"  she  replied,  with  the  outward 
calmness  that  rarely  deserted  her  —  the  calmness,  indeed, 
that  had  piqued  him  and  was  leading  him  on  to  rashness. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  " Simmons  will  get  it  for  you."  Simmons 
was  the  watchman  who  stood  in  the  vestibule  of  the  office 
entrance. 

"Thanks.  I  can  get  it  myself,"  she  told  him,  and  would 
have  gone  on  had  he  not  addressed  her  again.  "I  was  just 
starting  out  for  a  spin.  What  do  you  think  of  the  car? 
It's  good  looking,  isn't  it?"  He  stood  off  and  surveyed 
it,  laughing  a  little,  and  in  his  laugh  she  detected  a  note 
apologetic,  at  variance  with  the  conception  she  had  formed 
of  his  character,  though  not  alien,  indeed,  to  the  dust- 
coloured  vigour  of  the  man.  She  scarcely  recognized  Ditmar 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  81 

as  he  stood  there,  yet  he  excited  her,  she  felt  from  him  an 
undercurrent  of  something  that  caused  her  inwardly  to 
tremble.  ''See  how  the  lines  are  carried  through."  He 
indicated  this  by  a  wave  of  his  hand,  but  his  eyes  were  now 
on  her. 

"It  is  pretty,"  she  agreed. 

In  contrast  to  the  defensive  tactics  which  other  ladies  of 
his  acquaintance  had  adopted,  tactics  of  a  patently  coy 
and  coquettish  nature,  this  self-collected  manner  was  new 
and  spicy,  challenging  to  powers  never  as  yet  fully  exerted  — 
while  beneath  her  manner  he  felt  throbbing  that  rare  and 
dangerous  thing  in  women,  a  temperament,  for  which  men 
have  given  their  souls.  This  conviction  of  her  possession  of 
a  temperament,  —  he  could  not  have  defined  the  word,  — 
emotional  rather  than  intellectual,  produced  the  apologetic 
attitude  she  was  quick  to  sense.  He  had  never  been,  at 
least  during  his  maturity,  at  a  loss  with  the  other  sex,  and 
he  found  the  experience  delicious. 

"You  like  pretty  things,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  he  hazarded. 
But  she  did  not  ask  him  how  he  knew,  she  simply  assented. 
He  raised  the  hood,  revealing  the  engine.  "Isn't  that 
pretty  ?  See  how  nicely  everything  is  adjusted  in  that  little 
space  to  do  the  particular  work  for  which  it  is  designed." 

Thus  appealed  to,  she  came  forward  and  stopped,  still 
standing  off  a  little  way,  but  near  enough  to  see,  gazing  at 
the  shining  copper  caps  on  the  cylinders,  at  the  bright  rods 
and  gears. 

"It  looks  intricate,"  said  Mr.  Ditmar,  "but  really  it's 
very  simple.  The  gasoline  comes  in  here  from  the  tank 
behind  —  this  is  called  the  carburetor,  it  has  a  jet  to  vapor 
ize  the  gasoline,  and  the  vapour  is  sucked  into  each  of  these 
cylinders  in  turn  when  the  piston  moves  —  like  this."  He 
sought  to  explain  the  action  of  the  piston.  "  That  compresses 
it,  and  then  a  tiny  electric  spark  comes  just  at  the  right 

G 


82  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

moment  to  explode  it,  and  the  explosion  sends  the  piston 
down  again,  and  turns  the  shaft.  Well,  all  four  cylinders 
have  an  explosion  one  right  after  another,  and  that  keeps 
the  shaft  going."  Whereupon  the  most  important  personage 
in  Hampton,  the  head  of  the  great  Chippering  Mill  proceeded, 
for  the  benefit  of  a  humble  assistant  stenographer,  to  remove 
the  floor  boards  behind  the  dash.  "  There's  the  shaft,  — 
come  here  and  look  at  it."  She  obeyed,  standing  beside  him, 
almost  touching  him,  his  arm,  indeed,  brushing  her  sleeve, 
and  into  his  voice  crept  a  tremor.  "The  shaft  turns  the 
rear  wheels  by  means  of  a  gear  at  right  angles  on  the  axle, 
and  the  rear  wheels  drive  the  car.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  faintly,  honesty  compelling  her  to 
add:  "a  little." 

He  was  looking,  now,  not  at  the  machinery,  but  intently 
at  her,  and  she  could  feel  the  blood  flooding  into  her  cheeks 
and  temples.  She  was  even  compelled  for  an  instant  to 
return  his  glance,  and  from  his  eyes  into  hers  leaped  a  flame 
that  ran  scorching  through  her  body.  Then  she  knew  with 
conviction  that  the  explanation  of  the  automobile  had  been 
an  excuse;  she  had  comprehended  almost  nothing  of  it, 
but  she  had  been  impressed  by  the  facility  with  which  he 
described  it,  by  his  evident  mastery  over  it.  She  had  noticed 
his  hands,  how  thick  his  fingers  were  and  close  together; 
yet  how  deftly  he  had  used  them,  without  smearing  the  cuffs 
of  his  silk  shirt  or  the  sleeves  of  his  coat  with  the  oil  that 
glistened  everywhere. 

"I  like  machinery,"  he  told  her  as  he  replaced  the  boards. 
"I  like  to  take  care  of  it  myself." 

"It  must  be  interesting,"  she  assented,  aware  of  the  in 
adequacy  of  the  remark,  and  resenting  in  herself  an  inartic 
ulateness  seemingly  imposed  by  inhibition  connected  with 
his  nearness.  Fascination  and  antagonism  were  struggling 
within  her.  Her  desire  to  get  away  grew  desperate. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  83 

"Thank  you  for  showing  it  to  me."  With  an  effort  of  will 
she  moved  toward  the  bridge,  but  was  impelled  by  a  con 
sciousness  of  the  abruptness  of  her  departure  to  look  back  at 
him  once  —  and  smile,  to  experience  again  the  thrill  of  the 
current  he  sped  after  her.  By  lifting  his  hat,  a  little  higher, 
a  little  more  confidently  than  in  the  first  instance,  he  made 
her  leaving  seem  more  gracious,  the  act  somehow  conveying 
an  acknowledgment  on  his  part  that  their  relationship  had 
changed. 

Once  across  the  bridge  and  in  the  mill,  she  fairly  ran  up 
the  stairs  and  into  the  empty  office,  to  perceive  her  bag 
lying  on  the  desk  where  she  had  left  it,  and  sat  down  for  a 
few  minutes  beside  the  window,  her  heart  pounding  in  her 
breast  as  though  she  had  barely  escaped  an  accident  threaten 
ing  her  with  physical  annihilation.  Something  had  happened 
to  her  at  last !  But  what  did  it  mean  ?  Where  would  it 
lead?  Her  fear,  her  antagonism,  of  which  she  was  still 
conscious,  her  resentment  that  Ditmar  had  thus  surrepti 
tiously  chosen  to  approach  her  in  a  moment  when  they  were 
unobserved  were  mingled  with  a  throbbing  exultation  in  that 
he  had  noticed  her,  that  there  was  something  in  her  to  attract 
him  in  that  way,  to  make  his  voice  thicker  and  his  smile 
apologetic  when  he  spoke  to  her.  Of  that  "  something-in- 
her"  she  had  been  aware  before,  but  never  had  it  been  so 
unmistakably  recognized  and  beckoned  to  from  without. 
She  was  at  once  terrified,  excited  —  and  flattered. 

At  length,  growing  calmer,  she  made  her  way  out  of  the 
building.  When  she  reached  the  vestibule  she  had  a  moment 
of  sharp  apprehension,  of  paradoxical  hope,  that  Ditmar 
might  still  be  there,  awaiting  her.  But  he  had  gone.  .  .  . 

2 

In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  her 
mind,  to  persuade  herself  there  had  been  no  significance 


84  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

in  the  encounter,  when  she  was  seated  at  her  typewriter 
the  next  morning  she  experienced  a  renewal  of  the  palpi 
tation  of  the  evening  before,  and  at  the  sound  of  every 
step  in  the  corridor  she  started.  Of  this  tendency  she  was 
profoundly  ashamed.  And  when  at  last  Ditmar  arrived, 
though  the  blood  rose  to  her  temples,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  keys.  He  went  quickly  into  his  room  :  she  was  con 
vinced  he  had  not  so  much  as  glanced  at  her.  ...  As  the 
days  went  by,  however,  she  was  annoyed  by  the  discovery 
that  his  continued  ignoring  of  her  presence  brought  more 
resentment  than  relief,  she  detected  in  it  a  deliberation 
implying  between  them  a  guilty  secret :  she  hated  secrecy, 
though  secrecy  contained  a  thrill.  Then,  one  morning  when 
she  was  alone  in  the  office  with  young  Caldwell,  who  was 
absorbed  in  some  reports,  Ditmar  entered  unexpectedly  and 
looked  her  full  in  the  eyes,  surprising  her  into  answering  his 
glance  before  she  could  turn  away,  hating  herself  and  hating 
him.  Hate,  she  determined,  was  her  prevailing  sentiment 
in  regard  to  Mr.  Ditmar. 

The  following  Monday  Miss  Ottway  overtook  her,  at  noon, 
on  the  stairs. 

"Janet,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  to  tell  you  I'm  leaving," 
she  said. 

"Leaving!"  repeated  Janet,  who  had  regarded  Miss 
Ottway  as  a  fixture. 

"I'm  going  to  Boston,"  Miss  Ottway  explained,  in  her 
deep,  musical  voice.  "I've  always  wanted  to  go,  I  have  an 
unmarried  sister  there  of  whom  I'm  very  fond,  and  Mr. 
Ditmar  knows  that.  He's  got  me  a  place  with  the  Treasurer, 
Mr.  Semple." 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry  you're  going,  though  of  course  I'm  glad 
for  you,"  Janet  said  sincerely,  for  she  liked  and  respected 
Miss  Ottway,  and  was  conscious  in  the  older  woman  of  a 
certain  kindly  interest. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  85 

"Janet,  I've  recommended  you  to  Mr.  Ditmar  for  my 
place." 

"Oh!"  cried  Janet,  faintly. 

"  It  was  he  who  asked  about  you,  he  thinks  you  are  reliable 
and  quick  and  clever,  and  I  was  very  glad  to  say  a  good  word 
for  you,  my  dear,  since  I  could  honestly  do  so."  Miss 
Ottway  drew  Janet's  arm  through  hers  and  patted  it  affec 
tionately.  "Of  course  you'll  have  to  expect  some  jealousy, 
there  are  older  women  in  the  other  offices  who  will  think 
they  ought  to  have  the  place,  but  if  you  attend  to  your  own 
affairs,  as  you  always  have  done,  there  won't  be  any  trouble." 

"Oh,  I  won't  take  the  place,  I  can't!"  Janet  cried,  so 
passionately  that  Miss  Ottway  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 
"I'm  awfully  grateful  to  you,"  she  added,  flushing  crimson, 
"I  — I'm  afraid  I'm  not  equal  to  it." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  other  with  decision.  "You'd  be 
very  foolish  not  to  try  it.  You  wron't  get  as  much  as  I  do, 
at  first,  at  any  rate,  but  a  little  more  money  won't  be  un 
welcome,  I  guess.  Mr.  Ditmar  will  speak  to  you  this 
afternoon.  I  leave  on  Saturday.  I'm  real  glad  to  do  you 
a  good  turn,  Janet,  and  I  know  you'll  get  along,"  Miss  Ottway 
added  impulsively  as  they  parted  at  the  corner  of  Faber 
Street.  "I've  always  thought  a  good  deal  of  you." 

For  awhile  Janet  stood  still,  staring  after  the  sturdy  figure 
of  her  friend,  heedless  of  the  noonday  crowd  that  bumped 
her.  Then  she  went  to  Grady's  Quick  Lunch  Counter  and 
ordered  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of  milk,  which  she  consumed 
slowly,  profoundly  sunk  in  thought.  Presently  Eda  Rawle 
arrived,  and  noticing  her  preoccupation,  inquired  what  was 
the  matter. 

"Nothing,"  said  Janet.  .  .  . 

At  two  o'clock,  when  Ditmar  returned  to  the  office,  he 
called  Miss  Ottway,  who  presently  came  out  to  summon 
Janet  to  his  presence.  Fresh,  immaculate,  yet  virile  in  his 


86  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

light  suit  and  silk  shirt  with  red  stripes,  he  was  seated  at 
his  desk  engaged  in  turning  over  some  papers  in  a  drawer. 
He  kept  her  waiting  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  apparent 
casualness :  — 

"Is  that  you,  Miss  Bumpus?  Would  you  mind  closing 
the  door?" 

Janet  obeyed,  and  again  stood  before  him.  He  looked  up. 
A  suggestion  of  tenseness  in  her  pose  betraying  an  inner 
attitude  of  alertness,  of  defiance,  conveyed  to  him  sharply 
and  deliciously  once  more  the  panther-like  impression  he  had 
received  when  first,  as  a  woman,  she  had  come  to  his  notice. 
The  renewed  and  heightened  perception  of  this  feral  quality 
in  her  aroused  a  sense  of  danger  by  no  means  unpleasurable, 
though  warning  him  that  he  was  about  to  take  an  unpre 
cedented  step,  being  drawn  beyond  the  limits  of  caution  he 
had  previously  set  for  himself  in  divorcing  business  and  sex. 
Though  he  was  by  no  means  self-convinced  of  an  intention 
to  push  the  adventure,  preferring  to  leave  its  possibilities 
open,  he  strove  in  voice  and  manner  to  be  business-like; 
and  instinct,  perhaps,  whispered  that  she  might  take  alarm. 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said  pleasantly,  as  he 
closed  the  drawer. 

She  seated  herself  on  an  office  chair. 

"Do  you  like  your  work  here?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  said  Janet. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  staring  at  her. 

"Why  should  I  ?"  she  retorted. 

"W7ell  —  what's  the  trouble  with  it?  It  isn't  as  hard  as 
it  would  be  in  some  other  places,  is  it?" 

"I'm  not  saying  anything  against  the  place." 

"What,  then?" 

"You  asked  me  if  I  liked  my  work.     I  don't." 

"Then  why  do  you  do  it?"  he  demanded. 

"To  live,"  she  replied. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  87 

He  smiled,  but  his  gesture  as  he  stroked  his  moustache 
implied  a  slight  annoyance  at  her  composure.  He  found  it 
difficult  with  this  dark,  self-contained  young  woman  to 
sustain  the  role  of  benefactor. 

"What  kind  of  work  would  you  like  to  do ?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  got  the  choice,  anyway,"  she 
said. 

He  observed  that  she  did  her  work  well,  to  which  she  made 
no  answer.  She  refused  to  help  him,  although  Miss  Ottway 
must  have  warned  her.  She  acted  as  though  she  were 
conferring  the  favour.  And  yet,  clearing  his  throat,  he 
was  impelled  to  say  :  — 

"Miss  Ottway's  leaving  me,  she's  going  into  the  Boston 
office  with  Mr.  Semple,  the  treasurer  of  the  corporation.  I 
shall  miss  her,  she's  an  able  and  reliable  woman,  and  she 
knows  my  ways."  He  paused,  fingering  his  paper  knife. 
"The  fact  is,  Miss  Bumpus,  she's  spoken  highly  of  you,  she 
tells  me  you're  quick  and  accurate  and  painstaking  —  I've 
noticed  that  for  myself.  She  seems  to  think  you  could  do 
her  work,  and  recommends  that  I  give  you  a  trial.  You 
understand,  of  course,  that  the  position  is  in  a  way  confiden 
tial,  and  that  you  could  not  expect  at  first,  at  any  rate,  the 
salary  Miss  Ottway  has  had,  but  I'm  willing  to  offer  you 
fourteen  dollars  a  week  to  begin  with,  and  afterwards,  if  we 
get  along  together,  to  give  you  more.  "What  do  you  say?" 

"I'd  like  to  try  it,  Mr.  Ditmar,"  Janet  said,  and  added 
nothing,  no  word  of  gratitude  or  of  appreciation  to  that 
consent. 

"Very  well  then,"  he  replied,  "that's  settled.  Miss 
Ottway  will  explain  things  to  you,  and  tell  you  about  — 
my  peculiarities.  And  when  she  goes  you  can  take  her 
desk,  by  the  window  nearest  my  door." 

Ditmar  sat  idle  for  some  minutes  after  she  had  gone, 
staring  through  the  open  doorway  into  the  outer  office.  .  .  . 


88  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 


To  Ditmar  she  had  given  no  evidence  of  the  storm  his 
offer  had  created  in  her  breast,  and  it  was  characteristic 
also  that  she  waited  until  supper  was  nearly  over  to  inform 
her  family,  making  the  announcement  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone,  just  as  though  it  were  not  the  unique  piece  of  good 
fortune  that  had  come  to  the  Bumpuses  since  Edward  had 
been  eliminated  from  the  mercantile  establishment  at  Dolton. 
The  news  was  received  with  something  like  consternation. 
For  the  moment  Hannah  was  incapable  of  speech,  and  her 
hand  trembled  as  she  resumed  the  cutting  of  the  pie :  but 
hope  surged  within  her  despite  her  effort  to  keep  it  down, 
her  determination  to  remain  true  to  the  fatalism  from  which 
she  had  paradoxically  derived  so  much  comfort.  The  effect 
on  Edward,  while  somewhat  less  violent,  was  temporarily  to 
take  away  his  appetite.  Hope,  to  flower  in  him,  needed 
but  little  watering.  Great  was  his  faith  in  the  Bumpus  blood, 
and  secretly  he  had  always  regarded  his  eldest  daughter  as 
the  chosen  vessel  for  their  redemption. 

"Well,  I  swan  !"  he  exclaimed,  staring  at  her  in  admiration 
and  neglecting  his  pie,  "I've  always  thought  you  had  it  in 
you  to  get  on,  Janet.  I  guess  I've  told  you  you've  always  put 
me  in  mind  of  Eliza  Bumpus  —  the  one  that  held  out  against 
the  Indians  till  her  husband  came  back  with  the  neighbours. 
I  was  just  reading  about  her  again  the  other  night." 

"Yes,  you've  told  us,  Edward,"  said  Hannah. 

"She  had  gumption,"  he  went  on,  undismayed.  "And 
from  what  I  can  gather  of  her  looks  I  calculate  you  favour 
her  —  she  was  dark  and  not  so  very  tall  —  not  so  tall  as  you, 
I  guess.  So  you're  goin' "  (he  pronounced  it  very  slowly) 
"you're  goin'  to  be  Mr.  Ditmar's  private  stenographer! 
He's  a  smart  man,  Mr.  Ditmar,  he's  a  good  man,  too.  All 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  behave  right  by  him.  He  always 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  89 

speaks  to  me  when  he  passes  by  the  gate.  I  was  sorry  for 
him  when  his  wife  died  —  a  young  woman,  too.  And  he's 
never  married  again!  Well,  I  swan!" 

"You'd  better  quit  swanning,"  exclaimed  Hannah. 
"And  what's  Mr.  Ditmar's  goodness  got  to  do  with  it? 
He's  found  out  Janet  has  sense,  she's  willing  and  hard 
working,  he  won't"  (pronounced  want)  "he  won't  be  the 
loser  by  it,  and  he's  not  giving  her  what  he  gave  Miss 
Ottway.  It's  just  like  you,  thinking  he's  doing  her  a  good 
turn." 

"I'm  not  saying  Janet  isn't  smart,"  he  protested,  "but 
I  know  it's  hard  to  get  work  with  so  many  folks  after  every 
job." 

"  Maybe  it  ain't  so  hard  when  you've  got  some  get-up  and 
go,"  Hannah  retorted  rather  cruelly.  It  was  thus  charac 
teristically  and  with  unintentional  sharpness  she  expressed 
her  maternal  pride  by  a  reflection  not  only  upon  Edward, 
but  Lise  also.  Janet  had  grown  warm  at  the  mention  of 
Ditmar's  name. 

"It  was  Miss  Ottway  who  recommended  me,"  she  said, 
glancing  at  her  sister,  who  during  this  conversation  had  sat 
in  silence.  Lise's  expression,  normally  suggestive  of  a  dis 
content  not  unbecoming  to  her  type,  had  grown  almost  sullen. 
Hannah's  brisk  gathering  up  of  the  dishes  was  suddenly 
arrested. 

"Lise,  why  don't  you  say  something  to  your  sister? 
Ain't  you  glad  she's  got  the  place?" 

"Sure,  I'm  glad,"  said  Lise,  and  began  to  unscrew  the 
top  of  the  salt  shaker.  "I  don't  see  why  I  couldn't  get  a 
raise,  too.  I  work  just  as  hard  as  she  does." 

Edward,  who  had  never  got  a  "raise"  in  his  life,  was 
smitten  with  compunction  and  sympathy. 

"Give  'em  time,  Lise,"  he  said  consolingly.  "You  ain't 
so  old  as  Janet." 


90  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Time!"  she  cried,  flaring  up  and  suddenly  losing  her 
control.  "  I've  got  a  picture  of  Walters  giving  me  a  raise  — 
I  know  the  girls  that  get  raises  from  him." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself/'  Hannah  declared. 
"There  — you've  spilled  the  salt!" 

But  Lise,  suddenly  bursting  into  tears,  got  up  and  left 
the  room.  Edward  picked  up  the  Banner  and  pretended  to 
read  it,  while  Janet  collected  the  salt  and  put  it  back  into 
the  shaker.  Hannah,  gathering  up  the  rest  of  the  dishes, 
disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  but  presently  returned,  as 
though  she  had  forgotten  something. 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  after  her?"  she  said  to  Janet. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  any  use.  She's  got  sort  of  queer, 
lately  —  she  thinks  they're  down  on  her." 

"I'm  sorry  I  spoke  so  sharp.  But  then — "  Hannah 
shook  her  head,  and  her  sentence  remained  unfinished. 

Janet  sought  her  sister,  but  returned  after  a  brief  interval, 
with  the  news  that  Lise  had  gone  out. 


One  of  the  delights  of  friendship,  as  is  well  known,  is 
the  exchange  of  confidences  of  joy  or  sorrow,  but  there  was, 
in  Janet's  promotion,  something  intensely  personal  to 
increase  her  natural  reserve.  Her  feelings  toward  Ditmar 
were  so  mingled  as  to  defy  analysis,  and  several  days  went 
by  before  she  could  bring  herself  to  inform  Eda  Rawle  of 
the  new  business  relationship  in  which  she  stood  to  the 
agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill.  The  sky  was  still  bright  as 
they  walked  out  Warren  Street  after  supper,  Eda  bewailing 
the  trials  of  the  day  just  ended  :  Mr.  Frye,  the  cashier  of  the 
bank,  had  had  one  of  his  cantankerous  fits,  had  found  fault 
with  her  punctuation,  nothing  she  had  done  had  pleased  him. 
But  presently,  when  they  had  come  to  what  the  Banner  called 
the  "residential  district,"  she  was  cheered  by  the  sight  of  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  91 

green  lawns,  the  flowerbeds  and  shrubbery,  the  mansions  of 
those  inhabitants  of  Hampton  unfamiliar  with  boarding- 
houses  and  tenements.  Before  one  of  these  she  paused, 
retaining  Janet  by  the  arm,  exclaiming  wistfully:  — 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  live  thti^?  That  belongs  to  your 
boss." 

Janet,  who  had  been  dreaming  as  she  gazed  at  the  facade 
of  rough  stucco  that  once  had  sufficed  to  fill  the  ambitions  of 
the  late  Mrs.  Ditmar,  recognized  it  as  soon  as  Eda  spoke, 
and  dragged  her  friend  hastily,  almost  roughly  along  the  side 
walk  until  they  had  reached  the  end  of  the  block.  Janet  was 
red. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  Eda,  as  soon  as  she  had 
recovered  from  her  surprise. 

"Nothing,"  said  Janet.     "Only  — I'm  in  his  office." 

"But  what  of  it  ?  You've  got  a  right  to  look  at  his  house, 
haven't  you?" 

"WTiy  yes, — a  right,"  Janet  assented.  Knowing  Eda's 
ambitions  for  her  were  not  those  of  a  business  career,  she 
was  in  terror  lest  her  friend  should  scent  a  romance,  and 
for  this  reason  she  had  never  spoken  of  the  symptoms  Ditmar 
had  betrayed.  She  attempted  to  convey  to  Eda  the  doubtful 
taste  of  staring  point-blank  at  the  house  of  one's  employer, 
especially  when  he  might  be  concealed  behind  a  curtain. 
"You  see,"  she  added,  "Miss  Ottway's  recommended  me 
for  her  place  —  she's  going  away." 

"Janet !"  cried  Eda.     "Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Well,"  said  Janet  guiltily,  "it's  only  a  trial.  I  don't 
know  whether  he'll  keep  me  or  not." 

"  Of  course  he'll  keep  you,"  said  Eda,  warmly.  "  If  that 
isn't  just  like  you,  not  saying  a  word  about  it.  Gee,  if  I'd 
had  a  raise  like  that  I  just  couldn't  wait  to  tell  you.  But 
then,  I'm  not  smart  like  you." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Janet,  out  of  humour  with  herself, 


92  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

and  annoyed  because  she  could  not  then  appreciate  Eda's 
generosity. 

"We've  just  got  to  celebrate !"  declared  Eda,  who  had 
the  gift,  which  Janet  lacked,  of  taking  her  joys  vicariously ; 
and  her  romantic  and  somewhat  medieval  proclivities  would 
permit  no  such  momentous  occasion  to  pass  without  an 
appropriate  festal  symbol.  "We'll  have  a  spree  on  Saturday 
—  the  circus  is  coming  then." 

"It'll  be  my  spree,"  insisted  Janet,  her  heart  warming. 
"I've  got  the  raise.  .  .  ." 

On  Saturday,  accordingly,  they  met  at  Grady's  for  lunch, 
Eda  attired  in  her  best  blouse  of  pale  blue,  and  when  they 
emerged  from  the  restaurant,  despite  the  torrid  heat,  she 
beheld  Faber  Street  as  in  holiday  garb  as  they  made  their 
way  to  the  cool  recesses  of  Winterhalter's  to  complete 
the  feast.  That  glorified  drug-store  with  the  five  bays 
included  in  its  manifold  functions  a  department  rivalling 
Delmonico's,  with  electric  fans  and  marble-topped  tables 
and  white-clad  waiters  who  took  one's  order  and  filled  it 
at  the  soda  fountain.  It  mattered  little  to  Eda  that  the 
young  man  awaiting  their  commands  had  pimples  and  long 
hair  and  grinned  affectionately  as  he  greeted  them. 

"Hello,  girls!"  he  said.     "What  strikes  you  to-day?" 

"Me  for  a  raspberry  nut  sundae,"  announced  Eda,  and 
Janet,  being  unable  to  imagine  any  more  delectable  con 
fection,  assented.  The  penetrating  odour  peculiar  to  drug 
stores,  dominated  by  menthol  and  some  unnamable  but 
ancient  remedy  for  catarrh,  was  powerless  to  interfere  with 
their  enjoyment. 

The  circus  began  at  two.  Rather  than  cling  to  the  straps 
of  a  crowded  car  they  chose  to  walk,  following  the  familiar 
route  of  the  trolley  past  the  car  barns  and  the  base-ball  park 
to  the  bare  field  under  the  seared  face  of  Torrey's  Hill, 
where  circuses  were  wont  to  settle.  A  sirocco-like  breeze 


THE  DWEUJNG-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  93 

from  the  southwest  whirled  into  eddies  the  clouds  of  germ- 
laden  dust  stirred  up  by  the  automobiles,  blowing  their 
skirts  against  their  legs,  and  sometimes  they  were  forced  to 
turn,  clinging  to  their  hats,  confused  and  giggling,  conscious 
of  male  glances.  The  crowd,  increasing  as  they  proceeded, 
was  in  holiday  mood;  young  men  with  a  newly-washed 
aspect,  in  Faber  Street  suits,  chaffed  boisterously  groups  of 
girls,  who  retorted  with  shrill  cries  and  shrieks  of  laughter; 
amorous  couples  strolled,  arm  in  arm,  oblivious,  as  though 
the  place  were  as  empty  as  Eden;  lady-killers  with  exag 
gerated  square  shoulders,  wearing  bright  neckties,  their 
predatory  instincts  alert,  hovered  about  in  eager  search  of 
adventure.  There  were  men-killers,  too,  usually  to  be  found 
in  pairs,  in  startling  costumes  they  had  been  persuaded  were 
the  latest  Paris  models,  —  imitations  of  French  cocottes 
in  Hampton,  proof  of  the  smallness  of  our  modern  world. 
Eda  regarded  them  superciliously. 

"They'd  like  you  to  think  they'd  never  been  near  a  loom 
or  a  bobbin!"  she  exclaimed. 

In  addition  to  these  more  conspicuous  elements,  the 
crowd  contained  sober  operatives  of  the  skilled  sort  pos 
sessed  of  sufficient  means  to  bring  hither  their  families, 
including  the  baby ;  there  were  section-hands  and  foremen, 
slashers,  mule  spinners,  beamers,  French-Canadians,  Irish, 
Scotch,  Welsh  and  English,  Germans,  with  only  an  occasional 
Italian,  Lithuanian,  or  Jew.  Peanut  and  popcorn  men, 
venders  of  tamales  and  chile-con-carne  hoarsely  shouted  their 
wares,  while  from  afar  could  be  heard  the  muffled  booming 
of  a  band.  Janet's  heart  beat  faster.  She  regarded  with 
a  tinge  of  awe  the  vast  expanse  of  tent  that  rose  before  her 
eyes,  the  wind  sending  ripples  along  the  heavy  canvas  from 
circumference  to  tent  pole.  She  bought  the  tickets;  they 
entered  the  circular  enclosure  where  the  animals  were  kept ; 
where  the  strong  beams  of  the  sun,  in  trying  to  force  their 


94  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

way  through  the  canvas  roof,  created  an  unnatural,  jaundiced 
twilight,  the  weirdness  of  which  was  somehow  enhanced  by 
the  hoarse,  amazingly  penetrating  growls  of  beasts. 
Suddenly  a  lion  near  them  raised  a  shaggy  head,  emitting 
a  series  of  undulating,  soul-shaking  roars. 

"Ah,  what's  eatin'  you?"  demanded  a  thick-necked  youth, 
pretending  not  to  be  awestricken  by  this  demonstration. 

"Suppose  he'd  get  out!"  cried  Eda,  drawing  Janet  away. 

"I  wouldn't  let  him  hurt  you,  dearie,"  the  young  man 
assured  her. 

"You !"  she  retorted  contemptuously,  but  grinned  in  spite 
of  herself,  showing  her  gums. 

The  vague  feeling  of  terror  inspired  by  this  tent  was  a  part 
of  its  fascination,  for  it  seemed  pregnant  with  potential 
tragedies  suggested  by  the  juxtaposition  of  helpless  babies 
and  wild  beasts,  the  babies  crying  or  staring  in  blank  amaze 
ment  at  padding  tigers  whose  phosphorescent  eyes  never 
left  these  morsels  beyond  the  bars.  The  two  girls  wandered 
about,  their  arms  closely  locked,  but  the  strange  atmos 
phere,  the  roars  of  the  beasts,  the  ineffable,  pungent  odour 
of  the  circus,  of  sawdust  mingled  with  the  effluvia  of  animals, 
had  aroused  an  excitement  that  was  slow  in  subsiding. 
Some  time  elapsed  before  they  were  capable  of  taking  a  nor 
mal  interest  in  the  various  exhibits. 

'" Adjutant  Bird/"  Janet  read  presently  from  a  legend 
on  one  of  the  compartments  of  a  cage  devoted  to  birds,  and 
surveying  the  somewhat  dissolute  occupant.  "Why,  he's 
just  like  one  of  those  tall  mashers  who  stay  at  the 
Wilmot  and  stand  on  the  sidewalk,  —  travelling  men,  you 
know." 

"Say  — isn't  he?"  Eda  agreed.  "Isn't  he  pleased  with 
himself,  and  his  feet  crossed!" 

"And  see  this  one,  Eda  —  he's  a  'Harpy  Eagle.'  There's 
somebody  we  know  looks  just  like  that.  Wait  a  minute  — 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  95 

I'll  tell  you  —  it's  the  woman  who  sits  in  the  cashier's  cage 
at  Grady's." 

"If  it  sure  isn't!"  said  Eda. 

"She  has  the  same  fluffy,  light  hair  —  hairpins  can't 
keep  it  down,  and  she  looks  at  you  in  that  same  sort  of 
surprised  way  with  her  head  on  one  side  when  you  hand  in 
your  check." 

"Why,  it's  true  to  the  life!"  cried  Eda  enthusiastically. 
"She  thinks  she's  got  all  the  men  cinched,  —  she  does  — 
and  she's  forty  if  she's  a  day." 

These  comparisons  brought  them  to  a  pitch  of  risible  en 
joyment  amply  sustained  by  the  spectacle  in  the  monkey 
cage,  to  which  presently  they  turned.  A  chimpanzee,  with 
a  solicitation  more  than  human,  was  solemnly  searching  a 
friend  for  fleas  in  the  midst  of  a  pandemonium  of  chatter 
ing  and  screeching  and  chasing,  of  rattling  of  bars  and 
trapezes  carried  on  by  their  companions. 

"Well,  young  ladies,"  said  a  voice,  "come  to  pay  a  call 
on  your  relations  —  have  ye  ?  " 

Eda  giggled  hysterically.  An  elderly  man  was  standing 
beside  them.  He  was  shabbily  dressed,  his  own  features 
were  wizened,  almost  simian,  and  by  his  friendly  and  fatuous 
smile  Janet  recognized  one  of  the  harmless  obsessed  in  which 
Hampton  abounded. 

"Relations!"  Eda  exclaimed. 

"You  and  me,  yes,  and  her,"  he  answered,  looking  at 
Janet,  though  at  first  he  had  apparently  entertained  some 
doubt  as  to  this  inclusion,  "we're  all  descended  from  them." 
His  gesture  triumphantly  indicated  the  denizens  of  the 
cage. 

"WTiat  are  you  giving  us?"  said  Eda. 

"Ain't  you  never  read  Darwin?"  he  demanded.  "If  you 
had,  you'd  know  they're  our  ancestors,  you'd  know  we  came 
from  them  instead  of  Adam  and  Eve.  That  there's  a  fable." 


96  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"  I'll  never  believe  I  came  from  them/'  cried  Eda,  vehement 
in  her  disgust. 

But  Janet  laughed.  "What's  the  difference  ?  Some  of  us 
aren't  any  better  than  monkeys,  anyway." 

"That's  so,"  said  the  man  approvingly.  "That's  so." 
He  wanted  to  continue  the  conversation,  but  they  left  him 
rather  ruthlessly.  And  when,  from  the  entrance  to  the 
performance  tent,  they  glanced  back  over  their  shoulders, 
he  was  still  gazing  at  his  cousins  behind  the  bars,  seemingly 
deriving  an  acute  pleasure  from  his  consciousness  of  the 
connection. 


CHAPTER  VI 


MODERN  business,  by  reason  of  the  mingling  of  the  sexes 
it  involves,  for  the  playwright  and  the  novelist  and  the  sociol 
ogist  is  full  of  interesting  and  dramatic  situations,  and  in 
it  may  be  studied,  undoubtedly,  one  phase  of  the  evolution 
tending  to  transform  if  not  disintegrate  certain  institutions 
hitherto  the  corner-stones  of  society.  Our  stage  is  set.  A 
young  woman,  conscious  of  ability,  owes  her  promotion 
primarily  to  certain  dynamic  feminine  qualities  with  which 
she  is  endowed.  And  though  she  may  make  an  elaborate 
pretense  of  ignoring  the  fact,  in  her  heart  she  knows  and 
resents  it,  while  at  the  same  time,  paradoxically,  she  gets  a 
thrill  from  it,  —  a  sustaining  and  inspiring  thrill  of  power ! 
On  its  face  it  is  a  business  arrangement ;  secretly,  —  attempt 
to  repudiate  this  as  one  may,  —  it  is  tinged  with  the  colours 
of  high  adventure.  When  Janet  entered  into  the  intimate 
relationship  with  Mr.  Claude  Ditmar  necessitated  by  her 
new  duties  as  his  private  stenographer  her  attitude,  slightly 
defiant,  was  the  irreproachable  one  of  a  strict  attention  to 
duty.  All  unconsciously  she  was  a  true  daughter  of  the 
twentieth  century,  and  probably  a  feminist  at  heart,  which 
is  to  say  that  her  conduct  was  determined  by  no  preconceived 
or  handed-down  notions  of  what  was  proper  and  lady-like. 
For  feminism,  in  a  sense,  is  a  return  to  atavism,  and  sex 
antagonism  and  sex  attraction  are  functions  of  the  same  thing. 
There  were  moments  when  she  believed  herself  to  hate  Mr. 
Ditmar,  when  she  treated  him  with  an  aloofness,  an  imper- 
H  97 


98  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

sonality  unsurpassed;  moments  when  he  paused  in  his 
dictation  to  stare  at  her  in  astonishment.  He,  who  flattered 
himself  that  he  understood  women  ! 

She  would  show  him !  —  such  was  her  dominating  de 
termination.  Her  promotion  assumed  the  guise  of  a  chal 
lenge,  of  a  gauntlet  flung  down  at  the  feet  of  her  sex.  In  a 
certain  way,  an  insult,  though  incredibly  stimulating.  If 
he  flattered  himself  that  he  had  done  her  a  favour,  if  he  en 
tertained  the  notion  that  he  could  presently  take  advantage 
of  the  contact  with  her  now  achieved  to  make  unbusiness 
like  advances  —  well,  he  would  find  out.  He  had  proclaimed 
his  desire  for  an  able  assistant  in  Miss  Ottway's  place  —  he 
would  get  one,  and  nothing  more.  She  watched  narrowly, 
a  I'affut,  as  the  French  say,  for  any  signs  of  sentiment,  and 
indeed  this  awareness  of  her  being  on  guard  may  have  had 
some  influence  on  Mr.  Ditinar's  own  attitude,  likewise 
irreproachable.  ...  A  rather  anaemic  young  woman,  a 
Miss  Annie  James,  was  hired  for  Janet's  old  place. 

In  spite  of  this  aloofness  and  alertness,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  Janet  felt  the  exuberance  of  being  in  touch  with  af 
fairs  of  import.  Hitherto  the  mill  had  been  merely  a  greedy 
monster  claiming  her  freedom  and  draining  her  energies  in 
tasks  routine,  such  as  the  copying  of  meaningless  documents 
and  rows  of  figures;  now,  supplied  with  stimulus  and  a 
motive,  the  Corporation  began  to  take  on  significance,  and 
she  flung  herself  into  the  work  with  an  ardour  hitherto  un 
known,  determined  to  make  herself  so  valuable  to  Ditmar 
that  the  time  would  come  when  he  could  not  do  without 
her.  She  strove  to  memorize  certain  names  and  addresses, 
lest  time  be  lost  in  looking  them  up,  to  familiarize  herself 
with  the  ordinary  run  of  his  correspondence,  to  recall  what 
letters  were  to  be  marked  "personal,"  to  anticipate  matters 
of  routine,  in  order  that  he  might  not  have  the  tedium  of 
repeating  instructions;  she  acquired  the  faculty  of  keeping 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  99 

his  engagements  in  her  head ;  she  came  early  to  the  office, 
remaining  after  hours,  going  through  the  files,  becoming 
familiar  with  his  system;  and  she  learned  to  sort  out  his 
correspondence,  sifting  the  important  from  the  unimportant, 
to  protect  him,  more  and  more,  from  numerous  visitors 
who  called  only  to  waste  his  time.  Her  instinct  for  the  de 
tection  of  book-agents,  no  matter  how  brisk  and  business 
like  they  might  appear,  was  unerring  —  she  remembered 
faces  and  the  names  belonging  to  them :  an  individual  once 
observed  to  be  persona  non  grata  never  succeeded  in  passing 
her  twice.  On  one  occasion  Ditmar  came  out  of  his  office 
to  see  the  back  of  one  of  these  visitors  disappearing  into 
the  corridor. 

"Who  was  that?"  he  asked. 

"His  name  is  McCalla,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you  didn't 
want  to  be  bothered." 

"But  how  in  thunder  did  you  get  rid  of  him?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Oh,  I  just  wouldn't  let  him  in,"  she  replied  demurely. 

And  Ditmar  went  away,  wondering.  .  .  .  Thus  she 
studied  him,  without  permitting  him  to  suspect  it,  learning 
his  idiosyncrasies,  his  attitude  toward  all  those  with  whom 
daily  he  came  in  contact,  only  to  find  herself  approving. 
She  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  was  a  judge  of  men,  com 
pelled  to  admire  his  adroitness  in  dealing  with  them.  He 
could  be  democratic  or  autocratic  as  occasion  demanded ; 
he  knew  when  to  yield,  and  when  to  remain  inflexible.  One 
morning,  for  instance,  there  arrived  from  New  York  a  dapper 
salesman  whose  jauntily  tied  bow,  whose  thin  hair  —  care 
fully  parted  to  conceal  an  incipient  baldness  —  whose  wary 
and  slightly  weary  eyes  all  impressively  suggested  the  metro 
politan  atmosphere  of  high  pressure  and  sophistication  from 
which  he  had  emerged.  He  had  a  machine  to  sell ;  an 
amazing  machine,  endowed  with  human  intelligence  and 


100  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

more  than  human  infallibility ;  for  when  it  made  a  mistake 
it  stopped.  It  was  designed  for  the  express  purpose  of 
eliminating  from  the  payroll  the  skilled  and  sharp-eyed 
women  who  are  known  as  "drawers-in,"  who  sit  all  day  long 
under  a  nor.th  light  patiently  threading  the  ends  of  the  warp 
through  the  heddles  of  the  loom  harness.  Janet's  imagi 
nation  was  gradually  fired  as  she  listened  to  the  visitor's  elo 
quence  ;  and  the  textile  industry,  which  hitherto  had  seemed 
to  her  uninteresting  and  sordid,  took  on  the  colours  of  ro 
mance. 

"Now  I've  made  up  my  mind  we'll  place  one  with  you, 
Mr.  Ditmar,"  the  salesman  concluded.  "I  don't  object  to 
telling  you  we'd  rather  have  one  in  the  Chippering  than  in 
any  mill  in  New  England." 

Janet  was  surprised,  almost  shocked  to  see  Ditmar  shake 
his  head,  yet  she  felt  a  certain  reluctant  admiration  because 
he  had  not  been  swayed  by  blandishments.  At  such  mo 
ments,  when  he  was  bent  on  refusing  a  request,  he  seemed 
physically  to  acquire  massiveness,  —  and  he  had  a  dogged 
way  of  chewing  his  cigar. 

"I  don't  want  it,  yet/'  he  replied,  "not  until  you  improve 
it."  And  she  was  impressed  by  the  fact  that  he  seemed  to 
know  as  much  about  the  machine  as  the  salesman  himself. 
In  spite  of  protests,  denials,  appeals,  he  remained  firm. 
"  When  you  get  rid  of  the  defects  I've  mentioned  come  back, 
Mr.  Hicks  —  but  don't  come  back  until  then." 

And  Mr.  Hicks  departed,  discomfited.  .  .  . 

Ditmar  knew  what  he  wanted.  Of  the  mill  he  was  the 
absolute  master,  familiar  with  every  process,  carrying  con 
stantly  in  his  mind  how  many  spindles,  how  many  looms 
were  at  work;  and  if  anything  untoward  happened,  be 
coming  aware  of  it  by  what  seemed  to  Janet  a  subconscious 
process,  sending  for  the  superintendent  of  the  department : 
for  Mr.  Orcutt,  perhaps,  whose  office  was  across  the  hall  — 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  iQi. 

: 

a  tall,  lean,  spectacled  man  of  fifty  who  looked  like  a  school 
master. 

"Orcutt,  what's  the  matter  with  the  opener  in  Cooney's 
room?" 

"Why,  the  blower's  out  of  order." 

"Well,  whose  fault  is  it?"  .  .  . 

He  knew  every  watchman  and  foreman  in  the  mill,  and 
many  of  the  second  hands.  The  old  workers,  men  and 
women  who  had  been  in  the  Chippering  employ  through 
good  and  bad  times  for  years,  had  a  place  in  his  affections, 
but  toward  the  labour  force  in  general  his  attitude  was  im 
personal.  The  mill  had  to  be  run,  and  people  to  be  got  to 
run  it.  With  him,  first  and  last  and  always  it  was  the  mill, 
and  little  by  little  what  had  been  for  Janet  a  heterogeneous 
mass  of  machinery  and  human  beings  became  unified  and 
personified  in  Claude  Ditmar.  It  was  odd  how  the  essence 
and  quality  of  that  great  building  had  changed  for  her; 
how  the  very  roaring  of  the  looms,  as  she  drew  near  the 
canal  in  the  mornings,  had  ceased  to  be  sinister  and  depress 
ing,  but  bore  now  a  burden  like  a  great  battle  song  to  excite 
and  inspire,  to  remind  her  that  she  had  been  snatched  as  by 
a  miracle  from  the  commonplace.  And  all  this  was  a  func 
tion  of  Ditmar.  * 

Life  had  become  portentous.  And  she  was  troubled  by 
no  qualms  of  logic,  but  gloried,  womanlike,  in  her  lack  of 
it.  She  did  not  ask  herself  why  she  had  deliberately  enlarged 
upon  Miss  Ottway's  duties,  invaded  debatable  ground  in 
part  inevitably  personal,  flung  herself  with  such  abandon 
into  the  enterprise  of  his  life's  passion,  at  the  same  time  main 
taining  a  deceptive  attitude  of  detachment,  half  deceiving 
herself  that  it  was  zeal  for  the  work  by  which  she  was  ac 
tuated.  In  her  soul  she  knew  better.  She  was  really  pour 
ing  fuel  on  the  flames.  She  read  him,  up  to  a  certain  point 
—  as  far  as  was  necessary;  and  beneath  his  attempts  at 


102          .THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

self-control  she  was  conscious  of  a  dynamic  desire  that 
betrayed  itself  in  many  acts  and  signs,  —  as  when  he  brushed 
against  her ;  and  occasionally  when  he  gave  evidence  with  his 
subordinates  of  a  certain  shortness  of  temper  unusual  with 
him  she  experienced  a  vaguely  alarming  but  delicious  thrill 
of  power.  And  this,  of  all  men,  was  the  great  Mr.  Ditmar  I 
Was  she  in  love  with  him?  That  question  did  not  trouble 
her  either.  She  continued  to  experience  in  his  presence 
waves  of  antagonism  and  attraction,  revealing  to  her  depths 
and  possibilities  of  her  nature  that  frightened  while  they 
fascinated.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  desist.  That 
craving  in  her  for  high  adventure  was  not  to  be  denied. 


On  summer  evenings  it  had  been  Ditmar's  habit  when  in 
Hampton  to  stroll  about  his  lawn,  from  time  to  time  chang 
ing  the  position  of  the  sprinkler,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  reflect 
ing  pleasantly  upon  his  existence.  His  house,  as  he  gazed 
at  it  against  the  whitening  sky,  was  an  eminently  satis 
factory  abode,  his  wife  was  dead,  his  children  gave  him  no 
trouble ;  he  felt  a  glow  of  paternal  pride  in  his  son  as  the 
boy  raced  up  and  down  the  sidewalk  on  a  bicycle ;  George 
was  manly,  large  and  strong  for  his  age,  and  had  a  domineer 
ing  way  with  other  boys  that  gave  Ditmar  secret  pleasure. 
Of  Amy,  who  was  showing  a  tendency  to  stoutness,  and  who 
had  inherited  her  mother's  liking  for  candy  and  romances, 
Ditmar  thought  scarcely  at  all :  he  would  glance  at  her  as 
she  lounged,  reading,  in  a  chair  on  the  porch,  but  she  did  not 
come  within  his  range  of  problems.  He  had,  in  short,  every 
thing  to  make  a  reasonable  man  content,  a  life  nicely  com 
pounded  of  sustenance,  pleasure,  and  business,  —  business 
naturally  being  the  greatest  of  these.  He  was  —  though 
he  did  not  know  it  —  ethically  and  philosophically  right  in 
squaring  his  morals  with  his  occupation,  and  his  had  been  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  103 

good  fortune  to  live  in  a  world  whose  codes  and  conventions 
had  been  carefully  adjusted  to  the  pursuit  of  that  particular 
brand  of  happiness  he  had  made  his  own.  Why,  then,  in 
the  name  of  that  happiness,  of  the  peace  and  sanity  and 
pleasurable  effort  it  had  brought  him,  had  he  allowed 
and  even  encouraged  the  advent  of  a  new  element  that 
threatened  to  destroy  the  equilibrium  achieved  ?  an  element 
refusing  to  be  classified  under  the  head  of  property, 
since  it  involved  something  he  desired  and  could  not 
buy?  A  woman  who  was  not  property,  who  resisted 
the  attempt  to  be  turned  into  property,  was  an  anomaly 
in  Ditmar's  universe.  He  had  not,  of  course,  existed 
for  more  than  forty  years  without  having  heard  and 
read  of  and  even  encountered  in  an  acquaintance  or  two 
the  species  of  sex  attraction  sentimentally  called  love  that 
sometimes  made  fools  of  men  and  played  havoc  with  more 
important  affairs,  but  in  his  experience  it  had  never  inter 
fered  with  his  sanity  or  his  appetite  or  the  Chippering  Mill : 
it  had  never  made  his  cigars  taste  bitter ;  it  had  never  caused 
a  deterioration  in  the  appreciation  of  what  he  had  achieved 
and  held.  But  now  he  was  experiencing  strange  symptoms 
of  an  intensity  out  of  all  proportion  to  that  of  former  rela 
tions  with  the  other  sex.  What  was  most  unusual  for  him, 
he  was  alarmed  and  depressed,  at  moments  irritable.  He 
regretted  the  capricious  and  apparently  accidental  impulse 
that  had  made  him  pretend  to  tinker  with  his  automobile 
that  day  by  the  canal,  that  had  led  him  to  the  incompa 
rable  idiocy  of  getting  rid  of  Miss  Ottway  and  installing  the 
disturber  of  his  peace  as  his  private  stenographer. 

What  the  devil  was  it  in  her  that  made  him  so  uncomfor 
table  ?  When  in  his  office  he  had  difficulty  in  keeping  his 
mind  on  matters  of  import ;  he  would  watch  her  furtively  as 
she  went  about  the  room  with  the  lithe  and  noiseless  move 
ments  that  excited  him  the  more  because  he  suspected  be- 


104  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

neath  her  outward  and  restrained  demeanour  a  fierceness  he 
craved  yet  feared.  He  thought  of  her  continually  as  a 
panther,  a  panther  he  had  caught  and  could  not  tame ;  he 
hadn't  even  caught  her,  since  she  might  escape  at  any  time. 
He  took  precautions  not  to  alarm  her.  When  she  brushed 
against  him  he  trembled.  Continually  she  baffled  and 
puzzled  him,  and  he  never  could  tell  of  what  she  was  think 
ing.  She  represented  a  whole  set  of  new  and  undetermined 
values  for  which  he  had  no  precedents,  and  unlike  every 
woman  he  had  known  —  including  his  wife  —  she  had  an 
integrity  of  her  own,  seemingly  beyond  the  reach  of  all  in 
fluences  economic  and  social.  All  the  more  exasperating, 
therefore,  was  a  propinquity  creating  an  intimacy  without 
substance,  or  without  the  substance  he  craved  —  for  she 
had  magically  become  for  him  a  sort  of  enveloping,  protecting 
atmosphere.  In  an  astonishingly  brief  time  he  had  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  talking  things  over  with  her ;  naturally  not 
affairs  of  the  first  importance,  but  matters  such  as  the 
economy  of  his  time :  when,  for  instance,  it  was  most  con 
venient  for  him  to  go  to  Boston ;  and  he  would  find  that  she 
had  telephoned,  without  being  told,  to  the  office  there  when 
to  expect  him,  to  his  chauffeur  to  be  on  hand.  He  never 
had  to  tell  her  a  thing  twice,  nor  did  she  interrupt  —  as  Miss 
Ottway  sometimes  had  done  —  the  processes  of  his  thought. 
Without  realizing  it  he  fell  into  the  habit  of  listening  for  the 
inflections  of  her  voice,  and  though  he  had  never  lacked  the 
power  of  making  decisions,  she  somehow  made  these  easier 
for  him  —  especially  if  a  human  equation  were  involved. 

He  had,  at  least,  the  consolation  —  if  it  were  one  —  of 
reflecting  that  his  reputation  was  safe,  that  there  would  be 
no  scandal,  since  two  are  necessary  to  make  the  kind  of  scan 
dal  he  had  always  feared,  and  Miss  Bumpus,  apparently, 
had  no  intention  of  being  the  second  party.  Yet  she  was  not 
virtuous,  as  lie  had  hitherto  defined  the  word.  Of  this  he 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  105 

was  sure.  Xo  woman  who  moved  about  as  she  did,  who 
had  such  an  effect  on  him,  who  had  on  occasions,  though 
inadvertently,  returned  the  lightning  of  his  glances,  whose 
rare  laughter  resembled  grace  notes,  and  in  whose  hair  was 
that  almost  imperceptible  kink,  could  be  virtuous.  This 
instinctive  conviction  inflamed  him.  For  the  first  tune  in 
his  life  he  began  to  doubt  the  universal  conquering  quality 
of  his  own  charms,  —  and  when  such  a  thing  happens  to  a 
man  like  Ditmar  he  is  in  danger  of  hell-fire.  He  indulged 
less  and  less  in  the  convivial  meetings  and  excursions  that 
hitherto  had  given  him  relaxation  and  enjoyment,  and  if  his 
cronies  inquired  as  to  the  reasons  for  his  neglect  of  them  he 
failed  to  answer  with  his  usual  geniality. 

"Everything  going  all  right  up  at  the  mills,  Colonel?"  he 
was  asked  one  day  by  Mr.  Madden,  the  treasurer  of  a  large 
shoe  company,  when  they  met  on  the  marble  tiles  of  the 
hall  in  their  Boston  club. 

"All  right.     Why?" 

"Well,"  replied  Madden,  conciliatingly,  "you  seem  kind 
of  preoccupied,  that's  all.  I  didn't  know  but  what  the  fifty- 
four  hour  bill  the  legislature's  just  put  through  might  be 
worrying  you." 

"WV11  handle  that  situation  when  the  time  comes,"  said 
Ditmar.  He  accepted  a  gin  rickey,  but  declined  rather 
curtly  the  suggestion  of  a  little  spree  over  Sunday  to  a  re 
sort  on  the  Cape  which  formerly  he  would  have  found  en 
ticing.  On  another  occasion  he  encountered  in  the  lobby  of 
the  Parker  House  a  more  intimate  friend,  Chester  Sprole, 
sallow,  self-made,  somewhat  corpulent,  one  of  those  lawyers 
hail  fellows  well  met  in  business  circles  and  looked  upon 
askance  by  the  Brahmins  of  their  profession;  more  than 
half  politician,  he  had  been  in  Congress,  and  from  time  to 
time  was  retained  by  large  business  interests  because  of  his 
persuasive  gifts  with  committees  of  the  legislature  —  though 


106  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

these  had  been  powerless  to  avert  the  recent  calamity  of  the 
women  and  children's  fifty-four  hour  bill.  Mr.  Sprole's  hair 
was  prematurely  white,  and  the  crow's-feet  at  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  were  not  the  result  of  legal  worries. 

"Hullo,  Bit,"  he  said  jovially. 

"Hullo,  Ches,"  said  Ditmar. 

"Now  you're  the  very  chap  I  wanted  to  see.  Where 
have  you  been  keeping  yourself  lately?  Come  out  to  the 
farm  to-night,  —  some  of  the  boys'll  be  there."  Mr. 
Sprole,  like  many  a  self-made  man,  was  proud  of  his  farm, 
though  he  did  not  lead  a  wholly  bucolic  existence. 

"I  can't,  Ches,"  answered  Ditmar.  "I've  got  to  go  back 
to  Hampton." 

This  statement  Mr.  Sprole  unwisely  accepted  as  a  fiction. 
He  took  hold  of  Ditmar's  arm. 

"A  lady  —  eh  —  what?" 

"I've  got  to  go  back  to  Hampton,"  repeated  Ditmar, 
with  a  suggestion  of  truculence  that  took  his  friend  aback. 
Not  for  worlds  would  Mr.  Sprole  have  offended  the  agent 
of  the  Chippering  Mill. 

"I  was  only  joking,  Claude,"  he  hastened  to  explain. 
Ditmar,  somewhat  mollified  but  still  dejected,  sought  the 
dining-room  when  the  lawyer  had  gone. 

"All  alone  to-night,  Colonel?"  asked  the  coloured  head 
waiter,  obsequiously. 

Ditmar  demanded  a  table  in  the  corner,  and  consumed  a 
solitary  meal. 


Very  naturally  Janet  was  aware  of  the  change  in  Ditmar, 
and  knew  the  cause  of  it.  Her  feelings  were  complicated. 
He,  the  most  important  man  in  Hampton,  the  self-sufficient, 
the  powerful,  the  hitherto  distant  and  unattainable  head 
of  the  vast  organization  known  as  the  Chippering  Mill,  of 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  107 

which  she  was  an  insignificant  unit,  at  times  became  for  her 
just  a  man  —  a  man  for  whom  she  had  achieved  a  delicious 
contempt.  And  the  knowledge  that  she,  if  she  chose,  could 
sway  and  dominate  him  by  the  mere  exercise  of  that  strange 
feminine  force  within  her  was  intoxicating  and  terrifying. 
She  read  this  in  a  thousand  signs ;  in  his  glances ;  in  his 
movements  revealing  a  desire  to  touch  her;  in  little  things 
he  said,  apparently  insignificant,  yet  fraught  with  meaning ; 
in  a  constant  recurrence  of  the  apologetic  attitude  —  so 
alien  to  the  Ditmar  formerly  conceived  —  of  which  he  had 
given  evidence  that  day  by  the  canal :  and  from  this  attitude 
emanated,  paradoxically,  a  virile  and  galvanic  current  pro 
foundly  disturbing.  Sometimes  when  he  bent  over  her 
she  experienced  a  commingled  ecstasy  and  fear  that  he  would 
seize  her  in  his  arms.  Yet  the  tension  was  not  constant, 
rising  and  falling  with  his  moods  and  struggles,  all  of  which 
she  read  —  unguessed  by  him  —  as  easily  as  a  printed  page 
by  the  gift  that  dispenses  with  laborious  processes  of  the 
intellect.  On  the  other  hand,  a  resentment  boiled  within 
her  his  masculine  mind  failed  to  fathom.  Stevenson  said 
of  John  Knox  that  many  women  had  come  to  learn  from  him, 
but  he  had  never  condescended  to  become  a  learner  in  re 
turn  —  a  remark  more  or  less  applicable  to  Ditmar.  She 
was,  perforce,  thrilled  that  he  was  virile  and  wanted  her, 
but  because  he  wanted  her  clandestinely  her  pride  revolted, 
divining  his  fear  of  scandal  and  hating  him  for  it  like  a 
thoroughbred.  To  do  her  justice,  marriage  never  occurred 
to  her.  She  was  not  so  commonplace. 

There  were  times,  however,  when  the  tension  between 
them  would  relax,  when  some  incident  occurred  to  focus 
Ditmar's  interest  on  the  enterprise  that  had  absorbed  and 
unified  his  life,  the  Chippering  Mill.  One  day  in  September, 
for  instance,  after  an  absence  in  New  York,  he  returned  to 
the  office  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  was  quick  to  sense 


108  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

his  elation,  to  recognize  in  him  the  restored  presence  of  the 
quality  of  elan,  of  command,  of  singleness  of  purpose  that 
had  characterized  him  before  she  had  become  his  stenogra 
pher.  At  first,  as  he  read  his  mail,  he  seemed  scarcely  con 
scious  of  her  presence.  She  stood  by  the  window,  awaiting 
his  pleasure,  watching  the  white  mist  as  it  rolled  over  the 
floor  of  the  river,  catching  glimpses  in  vivid,  saffron  blurs  of 
the  lights  of  the  Arundel  Mill  on  the  farther  shore.  Autumn 
was  at  hand.  Suddenly  she  heard  Ditmar  speaking. 

"  Would  you  mind  staying  a  little  while  longer  this  evening, 
Miss  Bumpus?" 

"Not  at  all,"  she  replied,  turning. 

On  his  face  was  a  smile,  almost  boyish. 

"The  fact  is,  I  think  I've  got  hold  of  the  biggest  single 
order  that  ever  came  into  any  mill  in  New  England,"  he 
declared. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad,"  she  said  quickly. 

"The  cotton  cards  — ?"  he  demanded. 

She  knew  he  referred  to  the  schedules,  based  on  the  cur 
rent  prices  of  cotton,  made  out  in  the  agent's  office  and  sent 
in  duplicate  to  the  selling  house  in  Boston.  She  got  them 
from  the  shelf;  and  as  he  went  over  them  she  heard  him 
repeating  the  names  of  various  goods  now  become  familiar, 
pongees,  poplins,  percales  and  voiles,  garbardines  and 
galateas,  lawns,  organdies,  crepes,  and  Madras  shirtings,  while 
he  wrote  down  figures  on  a  sheet  of  paper.  So  complete  was 
his  absorption  in  this  task  that  Janet,  although  she  had  re 
sented  the  insinuating  pressure  of  his  former  attitude  toward 
her,  felt  a  paradoxical  sensation  of  jealousy.  Presently, 
without  looking  up,  he  told  her  to  call  up  the  Boston  office 
and  ask  for  Mr.  Fraile,  the  cotton  buyer ;  and  she  learned 
from  the  talk  over  the  telephone  —  though  it  was  mostly 
about  "futures" — that  Ditmar  had  lingered  for  a  con 
ference  in  Boston  on  his  way  back  from  New  York.  After- 


THE   DWELLIXG-PLACE   OF  LIGHT  109 

wards,  having  dictated  two  telegrams  which  she  wrote  out 
on  her  machine,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair;  and  though 
the  business  for  the  day  was  ended,  showed  a  desire  to  de 
tain  her.  His  mood  became  communicative. 

"I've  been  on  the  trail  of  that  order  for  a  month,"  he 
declared.  "Of  course  it  isn't  my  business  to  get  orders, 
but  to  manage  this  mill,  and  that's  enough  for  one  man, 
God  knows.  But  I  heard  the  Bradlaughs  were  in  the  market 
for  these  goods,  and  I  told  the  selling  house  to  lie  low,  that 
I'd  go  after  it.  I  knew  I  could  get  away  with  it,  if  anybody 
could.  I  went  to  the  Bradlaughs  and  sat  down  on  'em,  I 
lived  with  'em,  ate  with  'em,  brought  'em  home  at  night. 
I  didn't  let  'em  alone  a  minute  until  they  handed  it  over. 
I  wasn't  going  to  give  any  other  mill  in  New  England  or 
any  of  those  southern  concerns  a  chance  to  walk  off  with 
it  —  not  on  your  life  !  Why,  we  have  the  facilities.  There 
isn't  another  mill  in  the  country  can  turn  it  out  in  the  time 
they  ask,  and  even  we  will  have  to  go  some  to  do  it.  But 
we'll  do  it,  by  George,  unless  I'm  struck  by  lightning." 

He  leaned  forward,  hitting  the  desk  with  his  fist,  and 
Janet,  standing  beside  him,  smiled.  She  had  the  tempting 
gift  of  silence.  Forgetting  her  twinge  of  jealousy,  she  was 
drawn  toward  him  now,  and  in  this  mood  of  boyish  exuber 
ance,  of  self-confidence  and  pride  in  his  powers  and  success 
she  liked  him  better  than  ever  before.  She  had,  for  the 
first  time,  the  curious  feeling  of  being  years  older  than  he, 
yet  this  did  not  detract  from  a  new-born  admiration. 

"I  made  this  mill,  and  I'm  proud  of  it,"  he  went  on. 
"When  old  Stephen  Chippering  put  me  in  charge  he  was 
losing  money,  he'd  had  three  agents  in  four  years.  The 
old  man  knew  I  had  it  in  me,  and  I  knew  it,  if  I  do  say  it 
myself.  All  this  union  labour  talk  about  shorter  hours 
makes  me  sick  —  why,  there  was  a  time  when  I  worked  ten 
and  twelve  hours  a  day,  and  I'm  man  enough  to  do  it  yet,  if 


110  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

I  have  to.  When  the  last  agent  —  that  was  Cort  —  was 
sacked  I  went  to  Boston  on  my  own  hook  and  tackled  the 
old  gentleman  —  that's  the  only  way  to  get  anywhere.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  the  mill  going  to  scrap,  and  I  told  him 
a  thing  or  two,  —  I  had  the  facts  and  the  figures.  Stephen 
Chippering  was  a  big  man,  but  he  had  a  streak  of  obstinacy 
in  him,  he  was  conservative,  you  bet.  I  had  to  get  it  across 
to  him  there  was  a  lot  of  dead  wood  in  this  plant,  I  had  to 
wake  him  up  to  the  fact  that  the  twentieth  century  was 
here.  He  had  to  be  shown  —  he  was  from  Boston,  you 
know — "  Ditmar  laughed  —  "but  he  was  all  wool  and  a 
yard  wide,  and  he  liked  me  and  trusted  me. 

"That  was  in  nineteen  hundred.  I  can  remember  the 
interview  as  well  as  if  it  had  happened  last  night  —  we  sat 
up  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  in  that  library  of  his 
with  the  marble  busts  and  the  leather-bound  books  and  the 
double  windows  looking  out  over  the  Charles,  where  the 
wind  was  blowing  a  gale.  And  at  last  he  said,  'All  right, 
Claude,  go  ahead.  I'll  put  you  in  as  agent,  and  stand  behind 
you.'  And  by  thunder,  he  did  stand  behind  me.  He  was 
quiet,  the  finest  looking  old  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  straight 
as  a  ramrod,  with  a  little  white  goatee  and  a  red,  weathered 
face  full  of  creases,  and  a  skin  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
pricked  all  over  with  needles  —  the  old  Boston  sort.  They 
don't  seem  to  turn  'em  out  any  more.  Why,  I  have  a 
picture  of  him  here." 

He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk  and  drew  out  a  photograph. 
Janet  gazed  at  it  sympathetically. 

"It  doesn't  give  you  any  notion  of  those  eyes  of  his," 
Ditmar  said,  reminiscently.  "They  looked  right  through 
a  man's  skull,  no  matter  how  thick  it  was.  If  anything  went 
wrong,  I  never  wasted  any  time  in  telling  him  about  it,  and 
I  guess  it  was  one  reason  he  liked  me.  Some  of  the  people 
up  here  didn't  understand  him,  kow-towed  to  him,  they 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  111 

were  scared  of  him,  and  if  he  thought  they  had  something  up 
their  sleeves  he  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  eat  'em  alive. 
Regular  fighting  eyes,  the  kind  that  get  inside  of  a  man  and 
turn  the  light  on.  And  he  sat  so  still  —  made  you  ashamed 
of  yourself.  Well,  he  was  a  born  fighter,  went  from  Harvard 
into  the  Rebellion  and  was  left  for  dead  at  Seven  Oaks, 
where  one  of  the  company  found  him  and  saved  him.  He 
set  that  man  up  for  life,  and  never  talked  about  it,  either. 
See  what  he  wrote  on  the  bottom  —  *  To  my  friend,  Claude 
Ditmar,  Stephen  Chippering.'  And  believe  me,  when  he 
once  called  a  man  a  friend  he  never  took  it  back.  I  know 
one  thing,  I'll  never  get  another  friend  like  him." 

With  a  gesture  that  gave  her  a  new  insight  into  Ditmar, 
reverently  he  took  the  picture  from  her  hand  and  placed  it 
back  in  the  drawer.  She  was  stirred,  almost  to  tears,  and 
moved  away  from  him  a  little,  as  though  to  lessen  by  dis 
tance  the  sudden  attraction  he  had  begun  to  exert :  yet  she 
lingered,  half  leaning,  half  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the  big 
desk,  her  head  bent  toward  him,  her  eyes  filled  with  light. 
She  was  wondering  whether  he  could  ever  love  a  woman  as 
he  loved  this  man  of  whom  he  had  spoken,  whether  he  could 
be  as  true  to  a  woman.  His  own  attitude  seemed  never 
to  have  been  more  impersonal,  but  she  had  ceased  to  resent 
it;  something  within  her  whispered  that  she  was  the  con 
ductor,  the  inspirer.  ... 

"I  wish  Stephen  Chippering  could  have  lived  to  see  this 
order,"  he  exclaimed,  "to  see  the  Chippering  Mill  to-day! 
I  guess  he'd  be  proud  of  it,  I  guess  he  wouldn't  regret  having 
put  me  in  as  agent." 

Janet  did  not  reply.  She  could  not.  She  sat  regarding 
him  intently,  and  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and  caught  her 
luminous  glance,  his  expression  changed,  she  knew  Stephen 
Chippering  had  passed  from  his  mind. 

"I  hope  you  like  it  here,"  he  said.     His  voice  had  become 


112  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

vibrant,  ingratiating,  he  had  changed  from  the  master  to 
the  suppliant  —  and  yet  she  was  not  displeased.  Power  had 
suddenly  flowed  back  into  her,  and  with  it  an  exhilarating 
self-command. 

"I  do  like  it,"  she  answered. 

"But  you  said,  when  I  asked  you  to  be  my  stenographer, 
that  you  didn't  care  for  your  work." 

"Oh,  this  is  different." 

"How?" 

"  I'm  interested,  the  mill  means  something  to  me  now  — 
you  see,  I'm  not  just  copying  things  I  don't  know  anything 
about." 

"I'm  glad  you're  interested,"  he  said,  in  the  same  odd, 
awkward  tone.  "  I've  never  had  any  one  in  the  office  who 
did  my  work  as  well.  Now  Miss  Ottway  was  a  good  sten 
ographer,  she  was  capable,  and  a  fine  woman,  but  she  never 
got  the  idea,  the  spirit  of  the  mill  in  her  as  you've  got  it, 
and  she  wasn't  able  to  save  me  trouble,  as  you  do.  It's 
remarkable  how  you've  come  to  understand,  and  in  such  a 
short  time." 

Janet  coloured.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  had  risen 
and  begun  to  straighten  out  the  papers  beside  her. 

"There  are  lots  of  other  things  I'd  like  to  understand,"  she 
said. 

"What?"  he  demanded. 

"Well  —  about  the  mill.  I  never  thought  much  about  it 
before,  I  always  hated  it,"  she  cried,  dropping  the  papers 
and  suddenly  facing  him.  "  It  was  just  drudgery.  But  now 
I  want  to  learn  everything,  all  I  can,  I'd  like  to  see  the 
machinery." 

"I'll  take  you  through  myself  —  to-morrow,"  he  declared. 

His  evident  agitation  made  her  pause.  They  were  alone, 
the  outer  office  deserted,  and  the  Ditmar  she  saw  now,  whom 
she  had  summoned  up  with  ridiculous  ease  by  virtue  of  that 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  113 

mysterious  power  within  her,  was  no  longer  the  agent  of  the 
Chippering  Mill,  a  boy  filled  with  enthusiasm  by  a  business 
achievement,  but  a  man,  the  incarnation  and  expression  of 
masculine  desire  —  desire  for  her.  She  knew  she  could 
compel  him,  if  she  chose,  to  throw  caution  to  the  winds. 

"Oh  no!"  she  exclaimed.  She  was  afraid  of  him,  she 
shrank  from  such  a  conspicuous  sign  of  his  favour. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I  don't  want  you  to,"  she  said,  and  realized, 
as  soon  as  she  had  spoken,  that  her  words  might  imply  the 
existence  of  a  something  between  them  never  before  hinted 
at  by  her.  "I'll  get  Mr.  Caldwell  to  take  me  through." 
She  moved  toward  the  door,  and  turned;  though  still  on 
fire  within,  her  manner  had  become  demure,  repressed. 
"Did  you  wish  anything  more  this  evening?"  she  inquired. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  and  she  saw  that  he  was  gripping 
the  arms  of  his  chair.  , 


CHAPTER  VII 
1 

AUTUMN  was  at  hand.  All  day  it  had  rained,  but  now, 
as  night  fell  and  Janet  went  homeward,  the  white  mist  from 
the  river  was  creeping  stealthily  over  the  city,  disguising  the 
familiar  and  sordid  landmarks.  These  had  become  beauti 
ful,  mysterious,  somehow  appealing.  The  electric  arcs, 
splotches  in  the  veil,  revealed  on  the  Common  phantom 
trees;  and  in  the  distance,  against  the  blurred  lights  from 
the  Warren  Street  stores  skirting  the  park  could  be  seen 
phantom  vehicles,  phantom  people  moving  to  and  fro. 
Thus,  it  seemed  to  Janet,  invaded  by  a  pearly  mist  was  her 
own  soul,  in  which  she  walked  in  wonder,  —  a  mist  shot 
through  and  through  with  soft,  exhilarating  lights  half  dis 
closing  yet  transforming  and  etherealizing  certain  land 
marks  there  on  which,  formerly,  she  had  not  cared  to  gaze. 
She  was  thinking  of  Ditmar  as  she  had  left  him  gripping  his 
chair,  as  he  had  dismissed  her  for  the  day,  curtly,  almost 
savagely.  She  had  wounded  and  repelled  him,  and  lingering 
in  her  was  that  exquisite  touch  of  fear  —  a  fear  now  not  so 
much  inspired  by  Ditmar  as  by  the  semi-acknowledged 
recognition  of  certain  tendencies  and  capacities  within  her 
self.  Yet  she  rejoiced  in  them,  she  was  glad  she  had  hurt 
Ditmar,  she  would  hurt  him  again.  Still  palpitating,  she 
reached  the  house  in  Fillmore  Street,  halting  a  moment 
with  her  hand  on  the  door,  knowing  her  face  was  flushed, 
anxious  lest  her  mother  or  Lise  might  notice  something 
unusual  in  her  manner.  But,  when  she  had  slowly  mounted 

114 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  115 

the  stairs  and  lighted  the  gas  in  the  bedroom  the  sight  of 
her  sister's  clothes  cast  over  the  chairs  was  proof  that  Lise 
had  already  donned  her  evening  finery  and  departed.  The 
room  was  filled  with  the  stale  smell  of  clothes,  which  Janet 
detested.  She  flung  open  the  windows.  She  took  off  her 
hat  and  swiftly  tidied  herself,  yet  the  relief  she  felt  at  Lise's 
absence  was  modified  by  a  sudden,  vehement  protest  against 
sordidness.  Why  should  she  not  live  by  herself  amidst 
clean  and  tidy  surroundings?  She  had  begun  to  earn 
enough,  and  somehow  a  vista  had  been  opened  up  —  a  vista 
whose  end  she  could  not  see,  alluring,  enticing.  ...  In  the 
dining-room,  by  the  cleared  table,  her  father  was  reading 
the  Banner ;  her  mother  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door. 

"What  in  the  world  happened  to  you,  Janet?"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Janet.  "  Mr.  Ditmar  asked  me  to  stay  — 
that  was  all.  He'd  been  away." 

"  I  was  worried,  I  was  going  to  make  your  father  go  down 
to  the  mill.  I've  saved  you  some  supper." 

"I  don't  want  much,"  Janet  told  her,  "I'm  not  hungry." 

"  I  guess  you  have  to  work  too  hard  in  that  new  place,"  said 
Hannah,  as  she  brought  in  the  filled  plate  from  the  oven. 

"Well,  it  seems  to  agree  with  her,  mother,"  declared  Ed 
ward,  who  could  always  be  counted  on  to  say  the  wrong  thing 
with  the  best  of  intentions.  "I  never  saw  her  looking  as 
well  —  why,  I  swan,  she's  getting  real  pretty!" 

Hannah  darted  at  him  a  glance,  but  restrained  herself, 
and  Janet  reddened  as  she  tried  to  eat  the  beans  placed  be 
fore  her.  The  pork  had  browned  and  hardened  at  the  edges, 
the  gravy  had  spread,  a  crust  covered  the  potatoes.  When 
her  father  resumed  his  reading  of  the  Banner  and  her  mother 
went  back  into  the  kitchen  she  began  to  speculate  rather 
resentfully  and  yet  excitedly  why  it  was  that  this  adventure 
with  a  man,  with  Ditmar,  made  her  look  better,  feel  better, 


116  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

—  more  alive.  She  was  too  honest  to  disguise  from  herself 
that  it  was  an  adventure,  a  high  one,  fraught  with  all  sorts 
of  possibilities,  dangers,  and  delights.  Her  promotion  had 
been  merely  incidental.  Both  her  mother  and  father,  did 
they  know  the  true  circumstances,  —  that  Mr.  Ditmar  de 
sired  her,  was  perhaps  in  love  with  her  —  would  be  dis 
turbed.  Undoubtedly  they  would  have  believed  that  she 
could  "take  care"  of  herself.  She  knew  that  matters  could 
not  go  on  as  they  were,  that  she  would  either  have  to  leave 
Mr.  Ditmar  or  —  and  here  she  baulked  at  being  logical. 
She  had  no  intention  of  leaving  him :  to  remain,  according 
to  the  notions  of  her  parents,  would  be  wrong.  Why  was  it 
that  doing  wrong  agreed  with  her,  energized  her,  made  her 
more  alert,  cleverer,  keying  up  her  faculties?  turned  life 
from  a  dull  affair  into  a  momentous  one  ?  To  abandon  Dit 
mar  would  be  to  slump  back  into  the  humdrum,  into  some 
thing  from  which  she  had  magically  been  emancipated, 
symbolized  by  the  home  in  which  she  sat ;  by  the  red-checked 
tablecloth,  the  ugly  metal  lamp,  the  cherry  chairs  with  the 
frayed  seats,  the  horsehair  sofa  from  which  the  stuffing  pro 
truded,  the  tawdry  pillow  with  its  colours,  once  gay,  that 
Lise  had  bought  at  a  bargain  at  the  Bagatelle.  .  .  .  The 
wooden  clock  with  the  round  face  and  quaint  landscape  be 
low  —  the  family's  most  cherished  heirloom  —  though  long 
familiar,  was  not  so  bad ;  but  the  two  yellowed  engravings 
on  the  wall  offended  her.  They  had  been  wedding  presents 
to  Edward's  father.  One  represented  a  stupid  German 
peasant  woman  holding  a  baby,  and  standing  in  front  of  a 
thatched  cottage;  its  companion  was  a  sylvan  scene  in 
which  certain  wooden  rustics  were  supposed  to  be  enjoying 
themselves.  Between  the  twTo,  and  dotted  with  flyspecks, 
hung  an  insurance  calendar  on  which  was  a  huge  head  of  a 
lady,  florid,  fluffy-haired,  flirtatious.  Lise  thought  her 
beautiful. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  117 

The  room  was  ugly.  She  had  long  known  that,  but  to 
night  the  realization  came  to  her  that  what  she  chiefly  re 
sented  in  it  was  the  note  it  proclaimed  —  the  note  of  a  mute 
acquiescence,  without  protest  or  struggle,  in  what  life  might 
send.  It  reflected  accurately  the  attitude  of  her  parents, 
particularly  of  her  father.  With  an  odd  sense  of  detach 
ment,  of  critical  remoteness  and  contempt  she  glanced  at 
him  as  he  sat  stupidly  absorbed  in  his  newspaper,  his  face 
puckered,  his  lips  pursed,  and  Ditmar  rose  before  her  — 
Ditmar,  the  embodiment  of  an  indomitableness  that  refused 
to  be  beaten  and  crushed.  She  thought  of  the  story  he  had 
told  her,  how  by  self-assertion  and  persistence  he  had 
become  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill,  how  he  had  convinced 
Mr.  Stephen  Chippering  of  his  ability.  She  could  not  think 
of  the  mill  as  belonging  to  the  Chipperings  and  the  other 
stockholders,  but  to  Ditmar,  who  had  shaped  it  into  an 
expression  of  himself,  since  it  was  his  ideal.  And  now 
it  seemed  that  he  had  made  it  hers  also.  She  regretted 
having  repulsed  him,  pushed  her  plate  away  from  her,  and 
rose. 

"You  haven't  eaten  anything,"  said  Hannah,  who  had 
come  into  the  room.  "WTiere  are  you  going?" 

"Out  —  to  Eda's,"  Janet  answered.  .  .  . 

"It's  late,"  Hannah  objected.  But  Janet  departed. 
Instead  of  going  to  Eda's  she  walked  alone,  seeking  the 
quieter  streets  that  her  thoughts  might  flow  undisturbed.  At 
ten  o'clock,  when  she  returned,  the  light  was  out  in  the  dining- 
room,  her  sister  had  not  come  in,  and  she  began  slowly  to 
undress,  pausing  every  nowT  and  then  to  sit  on  the  bed  and 
dream ;  once  she  surprised  herself  gazing  into  the  glass  with 
a  rapt  expression  that  was  almost  a  smile.  What  was  it 
about  her  that  had  attracted  Ditmar?  No  other  man  had 
ever  noticed  it.  She  had  never  thought  herself  good  looking, 
and  now — it  was  astonishing !  —  she  seemed  to  have  changed, 


118  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

and  she  saw  with  pride  that  her  arms  and  neck  were  shapely, 
that  her  dark  hair  fell  down  in  a  cascade  over  her  white 
shoulders  to  her  waist.  She  caressed  it ;  it  was  fine.  When 
she  looked  again,  a  radiancy  seemed  to  envelop  her.  She 
braided  her  hair  slowly,  in  two  long  plaits,  looking  shyly  in 
the  mirror  and  always  seeing  that  radiancy.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  with  a  shock  that  she  was 
doing  exactly  what  she  had  despised  Lise  for  doing,  and 
leaving  the  mirror  she  hurried  her  toilet,  put  out  the  light, 
and  got  into  bed.  For  a  long  time,  however,  she  remained 
wakeful,  turning  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other, 
trying  to  banish  from  her  mind  the  episode  that  had  excited 
her.  But  always  it  came  back  again.  She  saw  Ditmar 
before  her,  virile,  vital,  electric  with  desire.  At  last  she 
fell  asleep. 

Gradually  she  was  awakened  by  something  penetrating 
her  consciousness,  something  insistent,  pervasive,  unes- 
capable,  which  in  drowsiness  she  could  not  define.  The  gas 
was  burning,  Lise  had  come  in,  and  was  moving  peculiarly 
about  the  room.  Janet  watched  her.  She  stood  in  front 
of  the  bureau,  just  as  Janet  herself  had  done,  her  hands  at 
her  throat.  At  last  she  let  them  fall,  her  head  turning  slowly, 
as  though  drawn  by  some  irresistible,  hypnotic  power,  and 
their  eyes  met.  Lise's  were  filmed,  like  those  of  a  dog  whose 
head  is  being  stroked,  expressing  a  luxuriant  dreaminess  — 
uncomprehending,  passionate. 

"Say,  did  I  wake  you?"  she  asked.  "I  did  my  best  not 
to  make  any  noise  —  honest  to  God." 

"It  wasn't  the  noise  that  woke  me  up,"  said  Janet. 

"It  couldn't  have  been." 

"You've  been  drinking!"  said  Janet,  slowly. 

Lise  giggled. 

"What's  it  to  you,  angel  face!"  she  inquired.  "Quiet 
down,  now,  and  go  bye-bye." 


THE   DWELLIXG-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  119 

Janet  sprang  from  the  bed,  seized  her  by  the  shoulders, 
and  shook  her.  She  was  limp.  She  began  to  whimper. 

"  Cut  it  out  —  leave  me  go.  It  ain't  nothing  to  you  what 
I  do  —  I  just  had  a  highball." 

Janet  released  her  and  drew  back. 

"I  just  had  a  highball  —  honest  to  God !" 

"Don't  say  that  again !"  whispered  Janet,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  very  well.  For  God's  sake,  go  to  bed  and  leave  me 
alone  —  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  I  guess  —  I  ain't  nutty 
enough  to  hit  the  booze.  But  I  ain't  like  you  —  I've  got 
to  have  a  little  fun  to  keep  alive." 

"A  little  fun!"  Janet  exclaimed.  The  phrase  struck  her 
sharply.  A  little  fun  to  keep  alive ! 

With  that  same  peculiar,  cautious  movement  she  had 
observed,  Lise  approached  a  chair,  and  sank  into  it,  —  jerk 
ing  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the  room  where  Hannah  and 
Edward  slept. 

"D'you  want  to  wake  'em  up?  Is  that  your  game?" 
she  asked,  and  began  to  fumble  at  her  belt.  Overcoming 
with  an  effort  a  disgust  amounting  to  nausea,  Janet  ap 
proached  her  sister  again,  little  by  little  undressing  her,  and 
finally  getting  her  into  bed,  when  she  immediately  fell  into 
a  profound  slumber.  Janet,  too,  got  into  bed,  but  sleep 
was  impossible :  the  odour  lurked  like  a  foul  spirit  in  the 
darkness,  mingling  with  the  stagnant,  damp  air  that  came  in 
at  the  open  window,  fairly  saturating  her  with  horror :  it 
seemed  the  very  essence  of  degradation.  But  as  she  lay 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  shrinking  from  contamination,  in 
the  throes  of  excitement  inspired  by  an  unnamed  fear,  she 
grew  hot,  she  could  feel  and  almost  hear  the  pounding  of 
her  heart.  She  rose,  felt  around  in  the  clammy  darkness  for 
her  wrapper  and  slippers,  gained  the  door,  crept  through  the 
dark  hall  to  the  dining-room,  where  she  stealthily  lit  the 
lamp ;  darkness  had  become  a  terror.  A  cockroach  scurried 


120  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

across  the  linoleum.  The  room  was  warm  and  close,  it 
reeked  with  the  smell  of  stale  food,  but  at  least  she  found 
relief  from  that  other  odour.  She  sank  down  on  the  sofa. 

Her  sister  was  drunk.  That  in  itself  was  terrible  enough, 
yet  it  was  not  the  drunkenness  alone  that  had  sickened  Janet, 
but  the  suggestion  of  something  else.  Where  had  Lise  been  ? 
In  whose  company  had  she  become  drunk?  Of  late,  in 
contrast  to  a  former  communicativeness,  Lise  had  been 
singuarly  secretive  as  to  her  companions,  and  the  manner 
in  which  her  evenings  were  spent;  and  she,  Janet,  had 
grown  too  self-absorbed  to  be  curious.  Lise,  with  her  shop 
girl's  cynical  knowledge  of  life  and  its  pitfalls  and  the  high 
valuation  at  which  she  held  her  charms,  had  seemed  secure 
from  danger;  but  Janet  recalled  her  discouragement,  her 
threat  to  leave  the  Bagatelle.  Since  then  there  had  been 
something  furtive  about  her.  Now,  because  that  odour  of 
alcohol  Lise  exhaled  had  destroyed  in  Janet  the  sense  of 
exhilaration,  of  life  on  a  higher  plane  she  had  begun  to  feel, 
and  filled  her  with  degradation,  she  hated  Lise,  felt  for  her 
sister  no  strain  of  pity.  A  proof,  had  she  recognized  it,  that 
immorality  is  not  a  matter  of  laws  and  decrees,  but  of  in 
dividual  emotions.  A  few  hours  before  she  had  seen  nothing 
wrong  in  her  relationship  with  Ditmar  :  now  she  beheld  him 
selfish,  ruthless,  pursuing  her  for  one  end,  his  own  gratifica 
tion.  As  a  man,  he  had  become  an  enemy.  Ditmar  was 
like  all  other  men  who  exploited  her  sex  without  compunc 
tion,  but  the  thought  that  she  was  like  Lise,  asleep  in  a 
drunken  stupor,  that  their  cases  differed  only  in  degree,  was 
insupportable. 

At  last  she  fell  asleep  from  sheer  weariness,  to  dream  she 
was  with  Ditmar  at  some  place  in  the  country  under  spread 
ing  trees,  Silliston,  perhaps  —  Silliston  Common,  cleverly 
disguised :  nor  was  she  quite  sure,  always,  that  the  man 
was  Ditmar;  he  had  a  way  of  changing,  of  resembling  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  121 

man  she  had  met  in  Silliston  whom  she  had  mistaken  for 
a  carpenter.  He  was  pleading  with  her,  in  his  voice  was  the 
peculiar  vibrancy  that  thrilled  her,  that  summoned  some 
answering  thing  out  of  the  depths  of  her,  and  she  felt  herself 
yielding  with  a  strange  ecstasy  in  which  were  mingled  joy 
and  terror.  The  terror  was  conquering  the  joy,  and  sud 
denly  he  stood  transformed  before  her  eyes,  caricatured, 
become  a  shrieking  monster  from  whom  she  sought  in  agony 
to  escape.  ...  In  this  paralysis  of  fear  she  awoke,  staring 
with  wide  eyes  at  the  flickering  flame  of  the  lamp,  to  a  world 
filled  with  excruciating  sound  —  the  siren  of  the  Chippering 
Mill !  She  lay  trembling  with  the  horror  of  the  dream- 
spell  upon  her,  still  more  than  half  convinced  that  the  siren 
was  Ditmar's  voice,  his  true  expression.  He  was  waiting 
to  devour  her.  Would  the  sound  never  end  ?  .  .  . 

Then,  remembering  where  she  was,  alarmed  lest  her 
mother  might  come  in  and  find  her  there,  she  left  the  sofa, 
turned  out  the  sputtering  lamp,  and  ran  into  the  bedroom. 
Rain  was  splashing  on  the  bricks  of  the  passage-way  out 
side,  the  shadows  of  the  night  still  lurked  in  the  corners ; 
by  the  grey  light  she  gazed  at  Lise,  who  breathed  loudly 
and  stirred  uneasily,  her  mouth  open,  her  lips  parched. 
Janet  touched  her. 

"Lise  —  get  up  !"  she  said.  "It's  time  to  get  up."  She 
shook  her. 

"Leave  me  alone  —  can't  you?" 

"It's  tune  to  get  up.     The  whistle  has  sounded." 

Lise  heavily  opened  her  eyes.     They  were  bloodshot. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  up.     I  won't  get  up." 

"But  you  must,"  insisted  Janet,  tightening  her  hold. 
"You've  got  to — you've  got  to  eat  breakfast  and  go  to  work." 

"I  don't  want  any  breakfast,  I  ain't  going  to  work  any 
more." 

A  gust  of  wind  blew  inward  the  cheap  lace  curtains,  and 


122  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

the  physical  effect  of  it  emphasized  the  chill  that  struck 
Janet's  heart.  She  got  up  and  closed  the  window,  lit  the 
gas,  and  returning  to  the  bed,  shook  Lise  again. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "if  you  don't  get  up  I'll  tell  mother 
what  happened  last  night." 

"Say,  you  wouldn't  — !"  exclaimed  Lise,  angrily. 

"Get  up!"  Janet  commanded,  and  watched  her  rather 
anxiously,  uncertain  as  to  the  after  effects  of  drunkenness. 
But  Lise  got  up.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  yawned, 
putting  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  I've  sure  got  a  head  on  me,"  she  remarked. 

Janet  was  silent,  angrier  than  ever,  shocked  that  tragedy, 
degradation,  could  be  accepted  thus  circumstantially. 
Lise  proceeded  to  put  up  her  hair.  She  seemed  to  be  mistress 
of  herself;  only  tired,  gaping  frequently.  Once  she  re 
marked  :  — 

"I  don't  see  the  good  of  getting  nutty  over  a  highball." 

Seeing  that  Janet  was  not  to  be  led  into  controversy,  she 
grew  morose. 

Breakfast  in  Fillmore  Street,  never  a  lively  meal,  was 
more  dismal  than  usual  that  morning,  eaten  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  slopping  water  from  the  roofs  on  the  pave 
ment  of  the  passage.  The  indisposition  of  Lise  passed 
unobserved  by  both  Hannah  and  Edward;  and  at  twenty 
minutes  to  eight  the  two  girls,  with  rubbers  and  umbrellas, 
left  the  house  together,  though  it  was  Janet's  custom  to 
depart  earlier,  since  she  had  farther  to  go.  Lise,  suspi 
cious,  maintained  an  obstinate  silence,  keeping  close  to  the 
curb.  They  reached  the  corner  by  the  provision  shop  with 
the  pink  and  orange  chromos  of  jellies  in  the  window. 

"Lise,  has  anything  happened  to  you?"  demanded  Janet 
suddenly.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me." 

"Anything  happened  —  what  do  you  mean?  Anything 
happened?" 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  123 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  suppose  something  has  happened?"  Lise's  reply 
was  pert,  defiant.  "What's  it  to  you?  If  anything's  hap 
pened,  it's  happened  to  me  —  hasn't  it?" 

Janet  approached  her. 

"  What  are  you  trying  to  do  ?  "  said  Lise.  "  Push  me  into 
the  gutter?" 

"I  guess  you're  there  already,"  said  Janet. 

Lise  was  roused  to  a  sudden  pitch  of  fury.  She  turned 
on  Janet  and  thrust  her  back. 

"Well,  if  I  am  who's  going  to  blame  me?"  she  cried.  "If 
you  had  to  work  all  day  in  that  hole,  standing  on  your  feet, 
picked  on  by  yaps  for  six  a  week,  I  guess  you  wouldn't  talk 
virtuous,  either.  It's  easy  for  you  to  shoot  off  your  mouth, 
you've  got  a  soft  snap  —  with  Ditmar." 

Janet  was  outraged.     She  could  not  restrain  her  anger. 

"How  dare  you  say  that?"  she  demanded. 

Lise  was  cowed. 

"  Well,  you  drove  me  to  it  —  you  make  me  mad  enough 
to  say  anything.  Just  because  I  went  to  Gruber's  with 
Neva  Lorrie  and  a  couple  of  gentlemen  —  they  were  gentle 
men  all  right,  as  much  gentlemen  as  Ditmar  —  you  come  at 
me  and  tell  me  I'm  all  to  the  bad."  She  began  to  sob. 
"I'm  as  straight  as  you  are.  How  was  I  to  know  the  high 
ball  was  stiff  ?  Maybe  I  was  tired  —  anyhow,  it  put  me 
on  the  queer,  and  everything  in  the  joint  began  to  tango 
'round  me  —  and  Neva  came  home  with  me." 

Janet  felt  a  surge  of  relief,  in  which  were  mingled  anxiety 
and  resentment :  relief  because  she  was  convinced  that  Lise 
was  telling  the  truth,  anxiety  because  she  feared  for  Lise's 
future,  resentment  because  Ditmar  had  been  mentioned. 
Still,  what  she  had  feared  most  had  not  come  to  pass.  Lise 
left  her  abruptly,  darting  down  a  street  that  led  to  a  back 
entrance  of  the  Bagatelle,  and  Janet  pursued  her  way.  WTiere, 


124  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

she  wondered,  would  it  all  end  ?  Lise  had  escaped  so  far, 
but  drunkenness  was  an  ominous  sign.  And  "  gentlemen  "  ? 
What  kind  of  gentlemen  had  taken  her  sister  to  Gruber's? 
Would  Ditmar  do  that  sort  of  thing  if  he  had  a  chance? 

The  pavement  in  front  of  the  company  boarding-houses 
by  the  canal  was  plastered  with  sodden  leaves  whipped  from 
the  maples  by  the  driving  rain  in  the  night.  The  sky  above 
the  mills  was  sepia.  White  lights  were  burning  in  the  loom 
rooms.  When  she  reached  the  vestibule  Simmons,  the 
watchman,  informed  her  that  Mr.  Ditmar  had  already  been 
there,  and  left  for  Boston. 


Janet  did  not  like  to  acknowledge  to  herself  her  disap 
pointment  on  learning  that  Ditmar  had  gone  to  Boston. 
She  knew  he  had  had  no  such  intention  the  night  before; 
an  accumulated  mail  and  many  matters  demanding  decisions 
were  awaiting  him;  and  his  sudden  departure  seemed  an 
act  directed  personally  against  her,  in  the  nature  of  a  re 
taliation,  since  she  had  offended  and  repulsed  him.  Through 
Lise's  degrading  act  she  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that 
all  adventure  and  consequent  suffering  had  to  do  with  Man 
—  a  conviction  peculiarly  maddening  to  such  temperaments 
as  Janet's.  Therefore  she  interpreted  her  suffering  in  terms 
of  Ditmar,  she  had  looked  forward  to  tormenting  him  again, 
and  by  departing  he  had  deliberately  balked  and  cheated 
her.  The  rain  fell  ceaselessly  out  of  black  skies,  night  seemed 
ever  ready  to  descend  on  the  river,  a  darkness  —  according 
to  young  Mr.  Caldwell  —  due  not  to  the  clouds  alone,  but 
to  forest  fires  many  hundreds  of  miles  away,  in  Canada. 
As  the  day  wore  on,  however,  her  anger  gradually  gave  place 
to  an  extreme  weariness  and  depression,  and  yet  she  dreaded 
going  home,  inventing  things  for  herself  to  do ;  arranging  and 
rearranging  Ditmar's  papers  that  he  might  have  less  trouble 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  125 

in  sorting  them,  putting  those  uppermost  which  she  thought 
he  would  deem  the  most  important.  Perhaps  he  would 
come  in,  late  !  In  a  world  of  impending  chaos  the  brilliantly 
lighted  office  was  a  tiny  refuge  to  which  she  clung.  At  last 
she  put  on  her  coat  and  rubbers,  faring  forth  reluctantly 
into  the  wet. 

At  first  when  she  entered  the  bedroom  she  thought  it 
empty,  though  the  gas  was  burning,  and  then  she  saw  Lise 
lying  face  downward  on  the  bed.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
still,  then  closed  the  door  softly. 

"Lise,"  she  said. 

"  What?" 

Janet  sat  down  on  the  bed,  putting  out  her  hand.  Un 
consciously  she  began  to  stroke  Lise's  hand,  and  presently 
it  turned  and  tightened  on  her  own. 

"Lise,"  she  said,  "I  understand  why  you  —  "she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  pronounce  the  words  "got  drunk,"  — 
"I  understand  why  you  did  it.  I  oughtn't  to  have  talked  to 
you  that  way.  But  it  was  terrible  to  wake  up  and  see  you." 

For  awhile  Lise  did  not  reply.  Then  she  raised  herself, 
feeling  her  hair  with  an  involuntary  gesture,  regarding  her 
sister  with  a  bewildered  look,  her  face  puckered.  Her 
eyes  burned,  and  under  them  were  black  shadows. 

"  How  do  you  mean  —  you  understand  ?  "  she  asked  slowly. 
"You  never  hit  the  booze." 

Even  Lise's  language,  which  ordinarily  offended  her, 
failed  to  change  her  sudden  impassioned  and  repentant  mood. 
She  was  astonished  at  herself  for  this  sudden  softening,  since 
she  did  not  really  love  Lise,  and  all  day  she  had  hated  her, 
wished  never  to  see  her  again. 

"No,  but  I  can  understand  how  it  would  be  to  want  to," 
Janet  said.  "Lise,  I  guess  we're  searching  —  both  of  us  — 
for  something  we'll  never  find." 

Lise  stared  at  her  with  a  contracted,  puzzled  expression, 


126  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

as  of  a  person  awaking  from  sleep,  all  of  whose  faculties  are 
being  strained  toward  comprehension. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded.  "You  and  me? 
You're  all  right  —  you've  got  no  kick  coming." 

"Life  is  hard,  it's  hard  on  girls  like  us  —  we  want  things 
we  can't  have."  Janet  was  at  a  loss  to  express  herself. 

"Well,  it  ain't  any  pipe  dream,"  Lise  agreed.  Her  glance 
turned  involuntarily  toward  the  picture  of  the  Olympian 
dinner  party  pinned  on  the  wall.  "Swells  have  a  good 
time,"  she  added. 

"Maybe  they  pay  for  it,  too,"  said  Janet. 

"  I  wouldn't  holler  about  paying  —  it's  paying  and  not 
getting  the  goods,"  declared  Lise. 

"You'll  pay,  and  you  won't  get  it.  That  kind  of  life  is 
—  hell,"  Janet  cried. 

Self-centered  as  Lise  was,  absorbed  in  her  own  trouble 
and  present  physical  discomfort,  this  unaccustomed  word 
from  her  sister  and  the  vehemence  with  which  it  was  spoken 
surprised  and  frightened  her,  brought  home  to  her  some  hint 
of  the  terror  in  Janet's  soul. 

"Me  for  the  water  wagon,"  she  said. 

Janet  was  not  convinced.  She  had  hoped  to  discover 
the  identity  of  the  man  who  had  taken  Lise  to  Gruber's,  but 
she  did  not  attempt  to  continue  the  conversation.  She  rose 
and  took  off  her  hat. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  bed  ? "  she  asked.  " I'll  tell  mother 
you  have  a  headache  and  bring  in  your  supper." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  replied  Lise,  gratefully. 

3 

Perhaps  the  most  disconcerting  characteristic  of  that  com 
plex  affair,  the  human  organism,  is  the  lack  of  continuity  of 
its  moods.  The  soul,  so  called,  is  as  sensitive  to  physical 
conditions  as  a  barometer:  affected  by  lack  of  sleep,  by 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  127 

smells  and  sounds,  by  food,  by  the  weather  —  whether  a 
day  be  sapphire  or  obsidian.  And  the  resolutions  arising 
from  one  mood  are  thwarted  by  the  actions  of  the  next. 
Janet  had  observed  this  phenomenon,  and  sometimes,  when 
it  troubled  her,  she  thought  herself  the  most  inconsistent 
and  vacillating  of  creatures.  She  had  resolved,  for  instance, 
before  she  fell  asleep,  to  leave  the  Chippering  Mill,  to 
banish  Ditmar  from  her  life,  to  get  a  position  in  Boston, 
whence  she  could  send  some  of  her  wages  home :  and  in 
the  morning,  as  she  made  her  way  to  the  office,  the  deter 
mination  gave  her  a  sense  of  peace  and  unity.  But  the 
northwest  wind  was  blowing.  It  had  chased  away  the 
mist  and  the  clouds,  the  smoke  from  Canada.  The  sun  shone 
with  a  high  brilliancy,  the  elms  of  the  Common  cast  sharp, 
black  shadow-patterns  on  the  pavements,  and  when  she 
reached  the  office  and  looked  out  of  his  window  she  saw  the 
blue  river  covered  with  quicksilver  waves  chasing  one  an 
other  across  the  current.  Ditmar  had  not  yet  returned  to 
Hampton.  About  ten  o'clock,  as  she  was  copying  out  some 
figures  for  Mr.  Price,  young  Mr.  C  aid  well  approached  her. 
He  had  a  Boston  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"Have  you  seen  this  article  about  Mr.  Ditmar ?  "  he  asked. 

"About  Mr.  Ditmar?     Xo." 

"It's  quite  a  send-off  for  the  Colonel/'  said  Caldwell, 
who  was  wont  at  times  to  use  the  title  facetiously.  "Lis 
ten  ;  'One  of  the  most  notable  figures  in  the  Textile  industry 
of  the  United  States,  Claude  Ditmar,  Agent  of  the  Chip 
pering  Mill.'"  -Caldwell  spread  out  the  page  and  pointed 
to  a  picture.  "There  he  is,  as  large  as  life." 

A  little  larger  than  life,  Janet  thought.  Ditmar  was  one 
of  those  men  who,  as  the  expression  goes,  "take"  well,  a 
valuable  asset  in  semi-public  careers;  and  as  he  stood  in 
the  sunlight  on  the  steps  of  the  building  where  they  had 
"snap-shotted"  him  he  appeared  even  more  massive,  force- 


128  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

ful,  and  preponderant  than  she  had  known  him.  Beholding 
him  thus  set  forth  and  praised  in  a  public  print,  he  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  been  distantly  removed  from  her,  to  have 
reacquired  at  a  bound  the  dizzy  importance  he  had  possessed 
for  her  before  she  became  his  stenographer.  She  found  it 
impossible  to  realize  that  this  was  the  Ditmar  who  had  pur 
sued  and  desired  her;  at  times  supplicating,  apologetic, 
abject ;  and  again  revealed  by  the  light  in  his  eyes  and  the 
trembling  of  his  hand  as  the  sinister  and  ruthless  predatory 
male  from  whom  —  since  the  revelation  in  her  sister  Lise  — 
she  had  determined  to  flee,  and  whom  she  had  persuaded  her 
self  she  despised.  He  was  a  bigger  man  than  she  had  thought, 
and  as  she  read  rapidly  down  the  column  the  fascination  that 
crept  over  her  was  mingled  with  disquieting  doubt  of  her  own 
powers  :  it  was  now  difficult  to  believe  she  had  dominated  or 
could  ever  dominate  this  self-sufficient,  successful  person, 
the  list  of  whose  achievements  and  qualities  was  so  alluringly 
set  forth  by  an  interviewer  who  himself  had  fallen  a  victim. 
The  article  carried  the  implication  that  the  modern, 
practical,  American  business  man  was  the  highest  type  as 
yet  evolved  by  civilization :  and  Ditmar,  referred  to  as  "  a 
wizard  of  the  textile  industry,"  was  emphatically  one  who 
had  earned  the  gratitude  of  the  grand  old  Commonwealth. 
By  the  efforts  of  such  sons  she  continued  to  maintain  her 
commanding  position  among  her  sister  states.  Prominent 
among  the  qualities  contributing  to  his  success  was  open- 
mindedness,  "  a  willingness  to  be  shown,"  to  scrap  machinery 
when  his  competitors  still  clung  to  older  methods.  The 
Chippering  Mill  had  never  had  a  serious  strike,  —  indication 
of  an  ability  to  deal  with  labour ;  and  Mr.  Ditmar's  views 
on  labour  followed :  if  his  people  had  a  grievance,  let  them 
come  to  him,  and  settle  it  between  them.  No  unions.  He 
had  consistently  refused  to  -  recognize  them.  There  was 
mention  of  the  Bradlaugh  order  as  being  the  largest  com- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  129 

mission  ever  given  to  a  single  mill,  a  reference  to  the  excite 
ment  and  speculation  it  had  aroused  in  trade  circles.  Claude 
Bitmap's  ability  to  put  it  through  was  unquestioned;  one 
had  only  to  look  at  him,  —  tenacity,  forcefulness,  execu- 
tiveness  were  written  all  over  him.  ...  In  addition,  the 
article  contained  much  material  of  an  autobiographical  nature 
that  must  —  Janet  thought  —  have  been  supplied  by  Ditmar 
himself,  whose  modesty  had  evidently  shrunk  from  the  cruder 
self-eulogy  of  an  interview.  But  she  recognized  several 
characteristic  phrases. 

Caldwell,  watching  her  as  she  read,  was  suddenly  fascinated. 
During  a  trip  abroad,  while  still  an  undergraduate,  he  had 
once  seen  the  face  of  an  actress,  a  really  good  Parisian  actress, 
light  up  in  that  way ;  and  it  had  revealed  to  him,  in  a  flash, 
the  meaning  of  enthusiasm.  Now  Janet  became  vivid  for 
him.  There  must  be  something  unusual  in  a  person  whose 
feelings  could  be  so  intense,  whose  emotions  rang  so  true. 
He  was  not  unsophisticated.  He  had  sometimes  wondered 
why  Ditmar  had  promoted  her,  though  acknowledging  her 
ability.  He  admired  Ditmar,  but  had  no  illusions  about 
him.  Harvard,  and  birth  in  a  social  stratum  where  emphasis 
is  superfluous,  enabled  him  to  smile  at  the  reporter's  exu 
berance  ;  and  he  was  the  more  drawn  toward  her  to  see  on 
Janet's  flushed  face  the  hint  of  a  smile  as  she  looked  up  at 
him  when  she  had  finished. 

"The  Colonel  hypnotized  that  reporter,"  he  said,  as  he 
took  the  paper ;  and  her  laugh,  despite  its  little  tremor,  be 
trayed  in  her  an  unsuspected,  humorous  sense  of  proportion. 
"Well,  I'll  take  off  my  hat  to  him,"  Caldwell  went  on. 
"He  is  a  wonder,  he's  got  the  mill  right  up  to  capacity  in  a 
week.  He's  agreed  to  deliver  those  goods  to  the  Bradlaughs 
by  the  first  of  April,  you  know,  and  Holster,  of  the  Claren 
don,  swears  it  can't  be  done,  he  says  Ditmar's  crazy.  Well, 
I  stand  to  lose  twenty-five  dollars  on  him," 


130  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

This  loyalty  pleased  Janet,  it  had  the  strange  effect  of 
reviving  loyalty  in  her.  She  liked  this  evidence  of  Dick 
Caldwell's  confidence.  He  was  a  self-contained  and  indus 
trious  young  man,  with  crisp  curly  hair,  cordial  and  friendly 
yet  never  intimate  with  the  other  employes ;  liked  by  them 
—  but  it  was  tacitly  understood  his  footing  differed  from 
theirs.  He  was  a  cousin  of  the  Chipperings,  and  destined 
for  rapid  promotion.  He  went  away  every  Saturday,  it 
was  known  that  he  spent  Sundays  and  holidays  in  delight 
ful  places,  to  return  reddened  and  tanned;  and  though 
he  never  spoke  about  these  excursions,  and  put  on  no  airs  of 
superiority,  there  was  that  in  his  manner  and  even  in  the 
cut  of  his  well-worn  suits  proclaiming  him  as  belonging  to  a 
sphere  not  theirs,  to  a  category  of  fortunate  beings  whose 
stumbles  are  not  fatal,  who  are  sustained  from  above.  Even 
Ditmar  was  not  of  these. 

"I've  just  been  showing  a  lot  of  highbrows  through  the 
mill,"  he  told  Janet.  "They  asked  questions  enough  to 
swamp  a  professor  of  economics." 

And  Janet  was  suddenly  impelled  to  ask :  — 

"Will  you  take  me  through  sometime,  Mr.  Caldwell?" 

"You've  never  been  through?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why, 
we'll  go  now,  if  you  can  spare  the  tune." 

Her  face  had  become  scarlet. 

"Don't  tell  Mr.  Ditmar,"  she  begged.  "You  see  — he 
wanted  to  take  me  himself." 

"Not  a  word,"  Caldwell  promised  as  they  left  the  office 
together  and  went  downstairs  to  the  strong  iron  doors  that 
led  to  the  Cotton  Department.  The  showing  through  of 
occasional  visitors  had  grown  rather  tiresome ;  but  now  his 
curiosity  and  interest  were  aroused,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
keen  stimulation  when  he  glanced  at  Janet's  face.  Its  illu 
mination  perplexed  him.  The  effect  was  that  of  a  picture 
obscurely  hung  and  hitherto  scarcely  noticed  on  which  the 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF   LIGHT  131 

light  had  suddenly  been  turned.  It  glowed  with  a  strange 
and  disturbing  radiance.  .  .  . 

As  for  Janet,  she  was  as  one  brought  suddenly  to  the  re 
alization  of  a  mirade  in  whose  presence  she  had  lived  for  many 
years  and  never  before  suspected  ;  the  miracle  of  machinery, 
of  the  triumph  of  man  over  nature.  In  the  brief  space  of  an 
hour  she  beheld  the  dim-  bales  flung  off  the  freight  cars  on 
the  sidings  transformed  into  delicate  fabrics  wound  from  the 
looms;  cotton  that  only  last  summer,  perhaps,  while  she 
sat  typewriting  at  her  window,  had  been  growing  in  the 
fields  of  the  South.  She  had  seen  it  torn  by  the  bale- 
breakers,  blown  into  the  openers,  loosened,  cleansed,  and 
dried ;  taken  up  by  the  lappers,  pressed  into  batting,  and 
passed  on  to  the  carding  machines,  to  emerge  like  a  wisp 
of  white  smoke  in  a  sliver  and  coil  automatically  in  a  can. 
Once  more  it  was  flattened  into  a  lap,  given  to  a  comber  that 
felt  out  its  fibres,  removing  with  superhuman  precision  those 
for  the  finer  fabric  too  short,  thrusting  it  forth  again  in  an 
other  filmy  sliver  ready  for  the  drawing  frames.  Six  erf  these 
gossamer  ropes  were  taken  up,  and  again  six.  Then  came  the 
slubbers  and  the  roving  frames,  twisting  and  winding,  the 
while  maintaining  the  most  delicate  of  tensions  lest  the  rope 
break,  running  the  strands  together  into  a  thread  constantly 
growing  stronger  and  finer,  until  it  was  ready  for  spinning. 

Caldwell  stood  close  to  her,  shouting  his  explanations  in 
her  ear,  while  she  strained  to  follow  them.  But  she  was 
bewildered  and  entranced  by  the  marvellous  swiftness,  ac 
curacy  and  ease  with  which  each  of  the  complex  machines, 
fed  by  human  hands,  performed  its  function.  These  human 
hands  were  swift,  too,  as  when  they  thrust  the  bobbins  of 
roving  on  the  ring-spinning  frames  to  be  twisted  into  yarn. 
She  saw  a  woman,  in  the  space  of  an  instant,  mend  a  broken 
thread.  Women  and  boys  were  here,  dofrer  boys  to  lift  off 
the  full  bobbins  of  yarn  with  one  hand  and  set  on  the  empty 


132  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

bobbins  with  the  other:  while  skilled  workmen,  alert  for 
the  first  sign  of  trouble,  followed  up  and  down  in  its  travels 
the  long  frame  of  the  mule-spinner.  After  the  spinning, 
the  heavy  spools  of  yarn  were  carried  to  a  beam-warper, 
standing  alone  like  a  huge  spider's  web,  where  hundreds  of 
threads  were  stretched  symmetrically  and  wound  evenly, 
side  by  side,  on  a  large  cylinder,  forming  the  warp  of  the 
fabric  to  be  woven  on  the  loom.  First,  however,  this  warp 
must  be  stiffened  or  "slashed"  in  starch  and  tallow,  dried 
over  heated  drums,  and  finally  wound  around  one  great  beam 
from  which  the  multitude  of  threads  are  taken  up,  one  by 
one,  and  slipped  through  the  eyes  of  the  loom  harnesses  by 
women  who  sit  all  day  under  the  north  windows  overlooking 
the  canal  —  the  "drawers-in  "  of  whom  Ditmar  had  spoken. 
Then  the  harnesses  are  put  on  the  loom,  the  threads  at 
tached  to  the  cylinder  on  which  the  cloth  is  to  be  wound. 
The  looms  absorbed  and  fascinated  Janet  above  all  else. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  would  never  tire  of  watching  the  rhythmic 
rise  and  fall  of  the  harnesses,  —  each  rapid  movement  making 
a  V  in  the  warp,  within  the  angle  of  which  the  tiny  shuttles 
darted  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  carrying  the  thread  that  filled 
the  cloth  with  a  swiftness  so  great  the  eye  could  scarcely  fol 
low  it ;  to  be  caught  on  the  other  side  when  the  angle  closed, 
and  flung  back,  and  back  again !  And  in  the  elaborate  pat 
terns  not  one,  but  several  harnesses  were  used,  each  await 
ing  its  turn  for  the  impulse  bidding  it  rise  and  fall !  .  .  . 
Abruptly,  as  she  gazed,  one  of  the  machines  halted,  a  weaver 
hurried  up,  searched  the  warp  for  the  broken  thread,  tied  it, 
and  started  the  loom  again. 

"That's  intelligent  of  it,"  said  Caldwell,  in  her  ear.  But 
she  could  only  nod  in  reply. 

The  noise  in  the  weaving  rooms  was  deafening,  the 
heat  oppressive.  She  began  to  wonder  how  these  men  and 
women,  boys  and  girls  bore  the  strain  all  day  long.  She 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  133 

had  never  thought  much  about  them  before  save  to  compare 
vaguely  their  drudgery  with  that  from  which  now  she  had 
been  emancipated;  but  she  began  to  feel  a  new  respect, 
a  new  concern,  a  new  curiosity  and  interest  as  she  watched 
them  passing  from  place  to  place  with  indifference  between 
the  whirling  belts,  up  and  down  the  narrow  aisles,  flanked 
on  either  side  by  that  bewildering,  clattering  machinery 
whose  polished  surfaces  continually  caught  and  flung  back 
the  light  of  the  electric  bulbs  on  the  ceiling.  How  was  it 
possible  to  live  for  hours  at  a  time  in  this  bedlam  without 
losing  presence  of  mind  and  thrusting  hand  or  body  in  the 
wrong  place,  or  becoming  deaf?  She  had  never  before  re 
alized  what  mill  work  meant,  though  she  had  read  of  the 
accidents.  But  these  people  —  even  the  children  —  seemed 
oblivious  to  the  din  and  the  danger,  intent  on  their  tasks, 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  a  visitor,  save  occasionally 
when  she  caught  a  swift  glance  from  a  woman  or  girl  —  a 
glance,  perhaps,  of  envy  or  even  of  hostility.  The  dark, 
foreign  faces  glowed,  and  instantly  grew  dull  again,  and  then 
she  was  aware  of  lurking  terrors,  despite  her  exaltation,  her 
sense  now  of  belonging  to  another  world,  a  world  somehow 
associated  with  Ditmar.  Was  it  not  he  who  had  lifted  her 
farther  above  all  this  ?  Was  it  not  by  grace  of  her  association 
with  him  she  was  there,  a  spectator  of  the  toil  beneath? 
Yet  the  terror  persisted.  She,  presently,  would  step  out  of 
the  noise,  the  oppressive  moist  heat  of  the  drawing  and  spin 
ning  rooms,  the  constant,  remorseless  menace  of  whirling 
wheels  and  cogs  and  belts.  But  they?  .  .  .  She  drew 
closer  to  Caldwell's  side. 

"I  never  knew  — "  she  said.  "It  must  be  hard  to  work 
here." 

He  smiled  at  her,  reassuringly. 

"Oh,  they  don't  mind  it,"  he' replied.  "It's  like  a  health 
resort  compared  to  the  conditions  most  of  them  live  in  at 
home.  Why,  there's  plenty  of  ventilation  here,  and  you've 


134  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

got  to  have  a  certain  amount  of  heat  and  moisture,  because 
when  cotton  is  cold  and  dry  it  can't  be  drawn  or  spun,  and 
wrhen  it's  hot  and  dry  the  electricity  is  troublesome.  If  you 
think  this  moisture  is  bad  you  ought  to  see  a  mill  with  the 
old  vapour-pot  system  with  the  steam  shooting  out  into  the 
room.  Look  here ! "  He  led  Janet  to  the  apparatus  in 
which  the  pure  air  is  forced  through  wet  cloths,  removing 
the  dust,  explaining  how  the  ventilation  and  humidity  were 
regulated  automatically,  how  the  temperature  of  the  room 
was  controlled  by  a  thermostat. 

"There  isn't  an  agent  in  the  country  who's  more  con 
cerned  about  the  welfare  of  his  operatives  than  Mr.  Ditmar. 
He's  made  a  study  of  it,  he's  spent  thousands  of  dollars,  and 
as  soon  as  these  machines  became  practical  he  put  'em  in. 
The  other  day  when  I  was  going  through  the  room  one  of 
these  shuttles  flew  off,  as  they  sometimes  do  when  the  looms 
are  running  at  high  speed.  A  woman  was  pretty  badly 
hurt.  Ditmar  came  right  down." 

"He  really  cares  about  them,"  said  Janet.  She  liked 
Caldwell's  praise  of  Ditmar,  yet  she  spoke  a  little  doubtfully. 

"Of  course  he  cares.  But  it's  common  sense  to  make  'em 
as  comfortable  and  happy  as  possible  —  isn't  it  ?  He  won't 
stand  for  being  held  up,  and  he'd  be  stiff  enough  if  it  came  to 
a  strike.  I  don't  blame  him  for  that.  Do  you  ?  " 

Janet  was  wondering  how  ruthless  Ditmar  could  be  if 
his  will  were  crossed.  .  .  .  They  had  left  the  room  with  its 
noise  and  heat  behind  them  and  were  descending  the  worn, 
oaken  treads  of  the  spiral  stairway  of  a  neighbouring  tower. 
Janet  shivered  a  little,  and  her  face  seemed  almost  feverish 
as  she  turned  to  Caldwell  and  thanked  him. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  pleasure,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  declared. 
"And  sometime,  when  you  want  to  see  the  Print  Works  or 
the  Worsted  Department,  let  me  know  —  I'm  your  man. 
And  —  I  won't  mention  it." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  135 

She  did  not  answer.  As  they  made  their  way  back  to  the 
office  he  glanced  at  her  covertly,  astonished  at  the  emotional 
effect  in  her  their  tour  had  produced.  Though'  not  of  an 
inflammable  temperament,  he  himself  was  stirred,  and  it 
was  she  who,  unaccountably,  had  stirred  him :  suggested,  in 
these  processes  he  saw  every  day,  and  in  which  he  was 
indeed  interested,  something  deeper,  more  significant  and 
human  than  he  had  guessed,  and  which  he  was  unable  to 
define.  , 


Janet  herself  did  not  know  why  this  intimate  view  of  the 
mills,  of  the  people  who  worked  in  them  had  so  greatly 
moved  her.  All  day  she  thought  of  them.  And  the  distant 
throb  of  the  machinery  she  felt  when  her  typewriter  was 
silent  meant  something  to  her  now  —  she  could  not  say 
what.  When  she  found  herself  listening  for  it,  her  heart 
beat  faster.  She  had  lived  and  worked  beside  it,  and  it 
had  not  existed  for  her,  it  had  had  no  meaning,  the  mills 
might  have  been  empty.  She  had,  indeed,  many,  many 
times  seen  these  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls  trooping 
away  from  work,  she  had  strolled  through  the  quarters  in 
which  they  lived,  speculated  on  the  lands  from  which  they 
had  come;  but  she  had  never  really  thought  of  them  as 
human  beings,  individuals,  with  problems  and  joys  and  sor 
rows  and  hopes  and  fears  like  her  own.  Some  such  dis 
covery  was  borne  in  upon  her.  And  always  an  essential 
function  of  this  revelation,  looming  larger  than  ever  in  her 
consciousness,  was  Ditmar.  It  was  for  Ditmar  they  toiled, 
in  Ditmar's  hands  were  their  very  existences,  his  was  the 
stupendous  responsibility  and  power. 

As  the  afternoon  wore,  desire  to  see  these  toilers  once  more 
took  possession  of  her.  From  the  white  cupola  perched 
above  the  huge  mass  of  the  Clarendon  Mill  across  the  water 


136  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

sounded  the  single  stroke  of  a  bell,  and  suddenly  the  air  was 
pulsing  with  sounds  flung  back  and  forth  by  the  walls  lining 
the  river.  Seizing  her  hat  and  coat,  she  ran  down  the  stairs 
and  through  the  vestibule  and  along  the  track  by  the  canal 
to  the  great  gates,  which  her  father  was  in  the  act  of  un 
barring.  She  took  a  stand  beside  him,  by  the  gatehouse. 
Edward  showed  a  mild  surprise. 

"There  ain't  anything  troubling  you  —  is  there,  Janet?" 
he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  wanted  to  see  the  hands  come  out,"  she  said. 

Sometimes,  as  at  present,  he  found  Janet's  whims  unac 
countable. 

"Well,  I  should  have  presumed  you'd  know  what  they 
look  like  by  this  time.  You'd  better  stay  right  close  to  me, 
they're  a  rough  lot,  with  no  respect  or  consideration  for 
decent  folks  —  these  foreigners.  I  never  could  see  why  the 
government  lets  'em  all  come  over  here."  He  put  on  the 
word  "  foreigners  "  an  emphasis  of  contempt  and  indignation, 
pathetic  because  of  its  peculiar  note  of  futility.  Janet  paid 
no  attention  to  him.  Her  ears  were  strained  to  catch  the 
rumble  of  feet  descending  the  tower  stairs,  her  eyes  to 
see  the  vanguard  as  it  came  from  the  doorway  —  the  first 
tricklings  of  a  flood  that  instantly  filled  the  yard  and  swept 
onward  and  outward,  irresistibly,  through  the  narrow  gorge 
of  the  gates.  Impossible  to  realize  this  as  the  force  which, 
when  distributed  over  the  great  spaces  of  the  mills,  performed 
an  orderly  and  useful  task !  for  it  was  now  a  turbid  and  law 
less  torrent  unconscious  of  its  swollen  powers,  menacing, 
breathlessly  exciting  to  behold.  It  seemed  to  Janet  indeed 
.a  torrent  as  she  clung  to  the  side  of  the  gatehouse  as  one 
might  cling  to  the  steep  bank  of  a  mountain  brook  after  a 
cloud-burst.  And  suddenly  she  had  plunged  into  it.  The 
i desire  was  absurd,  perhaps,  but  not  to  be  denied,  —  the  desire 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  137 

to  mix  with  it,  feel  it,  be  submerged  and  swept  away  by  it, 
losing  all  sense  of  identity.  She  heard  her  father  call  after 
her,  faintly  —  the  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  his  appeals 
were  always  faint,  —  and  then  she  was  being  carried  along 
the  canal,  eastward,  the  pressure  relaxing  somewhat  when 
the  draining  of  the  side  streets  began. 

She  remembered,  oddly,  the  Stanley  Street  bridge  where 
the  many  streams  met  and  mingled,  streams  from  the  Arun- 
del,  the  Patuxent,  the  Arlington  and  the  Clarendon ;  and, 
eager  to  prolong  and  intensify  her  sensations,  hurried  thither, 
reaching  it  at  last  and  thrusting  her  way  outward  until  she 
had  gained  the  middle,  where  she  stood  grasping  the  rail. 
The  great  structure  was  a-tremble  from  the  assault,  its 
footpaths  and  its  roadway  overrun  with  workers,  dodging 
between  trolleys  and  trucks,  —  some  darting  nimbly,  din 
ner  pails  in  hand,  along  the  steel  girders.  Doffer  boys 
romped  and  whistled,  young  girls  in  jaunty,  Faber  Street 
clothes  and  flowered  hats,  linked  to  one  another  for  protec 
tion,  chewed  gum  and  joked,  but  for  the  most  part  these 
workers  were  silent,  the  apathy  of  their  faces  making  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  hurry,  hurry  of  their  feet  and  set  intent- 
ness  of  their  bodies  as  they  sped  homeward  to  the  tenements. 
And  the  clothes  of  these  were  drab,  save  when  the  occasional 
colour  of  a  hooded  peasant's  shawl,  like  the  slightly  faded 
tints  of  an  old  master,  lit  up  a  group  of  women.  Here,  going 
home  to  their  children,  were  Italian  mothers  bred  through 
centuries  to  endurance  and  patience ;  sallow  Jewesses,  gaunt, 
bearded  Jews  with  shadowy,  half-closed  eyes  and  wrinkled 
brows,  broad-faced  Lithuanians,  flat-headed  Russians; 
swarthy  Italian  men  and  pale,  blond  Germans  mingled  with 
muddy  Syrians  and  nondescript  Canadians.  And  suddenly 
the  bridge  was  empty,  the  army  vanished  as  swiftly  as  it 
came ! 

Janet  turned.     Through  the  haze  of  smoke  she  saw  the  sun 


138  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

drop  like  a  ball  of  fire  cooled  to  redness,  whose  course  is  spent. 
The  delicate  lines  of  the  upper  bridge  were  drawn  in  sepia 
against  crimson-gilt;  for  an  instant  the  cupola  of  the  Clar 
endon  became  jasper,  and  far,  far  above  floated  in  the 
azure  a  cloud  of  pink  jeweller's  cotton.  Even  as  she  strove 
to  fix  these  colours  in  her  mind  they  vanished,  the  western 
sky  faded  to  magenta,  to  purple-mauve ;  the  corridor  of  the 
river  darkened,  on  either  side  pale  lights  sparkled  from  the 
windows  of  the  mills,  while  down  the  deepened  blue  of  the 
waters  came  floating  iridescent  suds  from  the  washing  of 
the  wools.  It  was  given  to  her  to  know  that  which  an  artist 
of  living  memory  has  called  the  incommunicable  thrill  of 
things.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  after-effects  of  this  experience  of  Janet's  were  not 
what  ordinarily  are  called  "spiritual,"  though  we  may 
some  day  arrive  at  a  saner  meaning  of  the  term,  include 
within  it  the  impulses  and  needs  of  the  entire  organism.  It 
left  her  with  a  renewed  sense  of  energy  and  restlessness, 
brought  her  nearer  to  high  discoveries  of  mysterious  joys 
which  a  voice  out  of  the  past  called  upon  her  to  forego,  — 
a  voice  somehow  identified  with  her  father !  It  was  faint, 
ineffectual.  In  obeying  it,  would  she  not  lose  all  life  had 
to  give?  When  she  came  in  to  supper  her  father  was  con 
cerned  about  her  because,  instead  of  walking  home  with  him 
she  had  left  him  without  explanation  to  plunge  into  the 
crowd  of  workers.  Her  evident  state  of  excitement  had 
worried  him,  her  caprice  was  beyond  his  comprehension. 
And  how  could  she  explain  the  motives  that  led  to  it?  She 
was  sure  he  had  never  felt  like  that ;  and  as  she  evaded  his 
questions  the  something  within  her  demanding  life  and  ex 
pression  grew  stronger  and  more  rebellious,  more  contempt 
uous  of  the  fear-precepts  congenial  to  a  nature  timorous 
and  less  vitalized. 

After  supper,  unable  to  sit  still,  she  went  out,  and,  filled 
with  the  spirit  of  adventure,  hurried  toward  Faber  Street, 
which  was  already  thronging  with  people.  It  was  bright  here 
and  gay,  the  shops  glittered,  and  she  wandered  from  window 
to  window  until  she  found  herself  staring  at  a  suit  of  blue 

139 


140  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

cloth  hung  on  a  form,  beneath  which  was  a  card  that  read, 
"Marked  down  to  $20."  And  suddenly  the  suggestion 
flashed  into  her  mind,  why  shouldn't  she  buy  it?  She  had 
the  money,  she  needed  a  new  suit  for  the  winter,  the  one 
she  possessed  was  getting  shabby  .  .  .  but  behind  the  excuse 
of  necessity  was  the  real  reason  triumphantly  proclaiming 
itself  —  she  would  look  pretty  in  it,  she  would  be  transformed, 
sha  would  be  buying  a  new  character  to  which  she  would 
have  to  live  up.  The  old  Janet  would  be  cast  off  with  tht 
old  raiment;  the  new  suit  would  announce  to  herself  and 
to  the  world  a  Janet  in  whom  were  released  all  those  longings 
hitherto  disguised  and  suppressed,  and  now  become  insup 
portable  !  This  was  what  the  purchase  meant,  a  change 
of  existence  as  complete  as  that  between  the  moth  and  the 
butterfly;  and  the  realization  of  this  fact,  of  the  audacity 
she  was  resolved  to  commit  made  her  hot  as  she  gazed  at 
the  suit.  It  was  modest  enough,  yet  it  had  a  certain  dis 
tinction  of  cut,  it  looked  expensive :  twenty  dollars  was  not 
cheap,  to  be  sure,  but  as  the  placard  announced,  it  had  the 
air  of  being  much  more  costly  —  even  more  costly  than 
thirty  dollars,  which  seemed  fabulous.  Though  she  strove 
to  remain  outwardly  calm,  her  heart  beat  rapidly  as  she 
entered  the  store  and  asked  for  the  costume,  and  was  some 
what  reassured  by  the  comportment  of  the  saleswoman, 
who  did  not  appear  to  think  the  request  preposterous,  to 
regard  her  as  a  spendthrift  and  a  profligate.  She  took 
down  the  suit  from  the  form  and  led  Janet  to  a  cabinet  in 
the  back  of  the  shop,  where  it  was  tried  on. 

"It's  worth  every  bit  of  thirty  dollars,"  she  heard  the 
woman  say,  "but  we've  had  it  here  for  some  time,  and  it's 
no  use  for  our  trade.  You  can't  sell  anything  like  that  in 
Hampton,  there's  no  taste  here,  it's  too  good,  it  ain't  showy 
enough.  My,  it  fits  you  like  it  was  made  for  you,  and  it's 
just  your  style  —  and  you  can  see  it  wants  a  lady  to  wear 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  141 

it.  Your  old  suit  is  too  tight  —  I  guess  you've  filled  out 
some  since  you  bought  it." 

She  turned  Janet  around  and  around,  patting  the  skirt 
here  and  there,  and  then  stood  off  a  little  way,  with  clasped 
hands,  her  expression  almost  rapturous.  Janet's  breath 
came  fast  as  she  gazed  into  the  mirror  and  buttoned  up  the 
coat.  Was  the  woman's  admiration  cleverly  feigned?  this 
image  she  beheld  an  illusion  ?  or  did  she  really  look  different, 
distinguished  ?  and  if  not  beautif id  —  alluring  ?  She  had  had 
a  momentary  apprehension,  almost  sickening,  that  she  would 
be  too  conspicuous,  but  the  saleswoman  had  anticipated 
that  objection  with  the  magical  word  "lady." 

"I'll  take  it,"  she  announced. 

"Well,  you  couldn't  have  done  better  if  you'd  gone  to 
Boston,"  declared  the  woman.  "It's  one  chance  in  a 
thousand.  Will  you  wear  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Janet  faintly.  .  .  .  "Just  put  my  old  suit  in 
a  box,  and  I'll  call  for  it  in  an  hour." 

The  woman's  sympathetic  smile  followed  her  as  she  left 
the  shop.  She  had  an  instant  of  hesitation,  of  an  almost 
panicky  desire  to  go  back  and  repair  her  folly,  ere  it  was 
too  late.  Wliy  had  she  taken  her  money  with  her  that 
evening,  if  not  with  some  deliberate  though  undefined  pur 
pose  ?  But  she  was  ashamed  to  face  the  saleswoman  again, 
and  her  elation  was  not  to  be  repressed  —  an  elation  opti 
cally  presented  by  a  huge  electric  sign  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  street  that  flashed  through  all  the  colours  of  the  spec 
trum,  surrounded  by  running  fire  like  the  running  fire  in 
her  soul.  Deliciously  self-conscious,  her  gaze  fixed  ahead, 
she  pressed  through  the  Wednesday  night  crowds,  young 
mill  men  and  women  in  their  best  clothes,  housewives  and 
fathers  of  families  with  children  and  bundles.  In  front  of 
the  Banner  office  a  group  blocked  the  pavement  staring  up 
at  the  news  bulletin,  which  she  paused  to  read.  "  Five  Mil- 


142  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

lionaire  Directors  Indicted  in  New  York"  "State  Treasurer 
Accused  of  Graft,"  "Murdoch  Fortune  Contested  by  Heirs." 

The  phrases  seemed  meaningless,  and  she  hurried  on  again 

She  was  being  noticed  I  A  man  looked  at  her,  twice,  the 
first  glance  accidental,  the  second  arresting,  appealing, 
subtly  flattering,  agitating  —  she  was  sure  he  had  turned 
and  was  following  her.  She  hastened  her  steps.  It  was 
wicked,  what  she  was  doing,  but  she  gloried  in  it ;  and  even 
the  sight,  in  burning  red  letters,  of  Gruber's  Cafe  failed 
to  bring  on  a  revulsion  by  its  association  with  her  sister 
Lise.  The  fact  that  Lise  had  got  drunk  there  meant  nothing 
to  her  now.  She  gazed  curiously  at  the  illuminated,  orange- 
coloured  panes  separated  by  curving  leads,  at  the  design  of  a 
harp  in  green,  at  the  sign  "Ladies'  Entrance";  listened 
eagerly  to  the  sounds  of  voices  and  laughter  that  came  from 
within.  She  looked  cautiously  over  her  shoulder,  a  shadow 
appeared,  she  heard  a  voice,  low,  insinuating.  .  .  . 

Four  blocks  farther  down  she  stopped.  The  man  was  no 
longer  following  her.  She  had  been  almost  self-convinced 
of  an  intention  to  go  to  Eda's  —  not  quite.  Of  late  her 
conscience  had  reproached  her  about  Eda,  Janet  had  neg 
lected  her.  She  told  herself  she  was  afraid  of  Eda's 
uncanny  and  somewhat  nauseating  flair  for  romance;  and 
to  show  Eda  the  new  suit,  though  she  would  relish  her 
friend's  praise,  would  be  the  equivalent  of  announcing  an 
affair  of  the  heart  which  she,  Janet,  would  have  indignantly 
to  deny.  She  was  not  going  to  Eda's.  She  knew  now  where 
she  was  going.  A  prepared  but  hitherto  undisclosed  decree 
of  fate  had  bade  her  put  money  in  her  bag  that  evening, 
directed  her  to  the  shop  to  buy  the  dress,  and  would  pres 
ently  impel  her  to  go  to  West  Street  —  nay,  was  even  now  so 
impelling  her.  Ahead  of  her  were  the  lights  of  the  Chipper- 
ing  Mill,  in  her  ears  was  the  rhythmic  sound  of  the  looms 
working  of  nights  on  the  Bradlaugh  order.  She  reached 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  143 

the  canal.  The  white  arc  above  the  end  of  the  bridge  cast 
sharp,  black  shadows  of  the  branches  of  the  trees  on  the 
granite,  the  thousand  windows  of  the  mill  shone  yellow, 
reflected  in  the  black  water.  Twice  she  started  to  go, 
twice  she  paused,  held  by  the  presage  of  a  coming  event,  — 
a  presage  that  robbed  her  of  complete  surprise  when  she 
heard  footsteps  on  the  bridge,  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  halting 
at  the  crown  of  the  arch  to  look  back  at  the  building  he  had 
left,  his  shoulders  squared,  his  hand  firmly  clasping  the 
rail.  Her  heart  was  throbbing  with  the  looms,  and  yet  she 
stood  motionless,  until  he  turned  and  came  rapidly  down 
the  slope  of  the  arch  and  stopped  in  front  of  her.  Under 
the  arc  lamp  it  was  almost  as  bright  as  day. 

"Miss  Bumpus!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Mr.  Ditmar!"  she  said. 

"Were  you  —  were  you  coming  to  the  office?" 

"I  was  just  out  walking/'  she  told  him.  "I  thought  you 
were  in  Boston." 

"  I  came  home,"  he  informed  her,  somewhat  superfluously, 
his  eyes  never  leaving  her,  wandering  hungrily  from  her 
face  to  her  new  suit,  and  back  again  to  her  face.  "I  got 
here  on  the  seven  o'clock  train,  I  wanted  to  see  about  those 
new  slubbers." 

"They  finished  setting  them  up  this  afternoon,"  she  said. 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Orcutt  about  it  —  I  thought  you  might 
telephone." 

"You're  a  wonder,"  was  his  comment.  "Well,  we've 
got  a  running  start  on  that  order,"  and  he  threw  a  glance 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  mill.  "Everything  going  full  speed 
ahead.  When  we  put  it  through  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give 
you  some  of  the  credit." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  done  anything,"  she  protested. 

"More  than  you  think.     You've  taken  so  much  off  my 


144  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

shoulders  I  couldn't  get  along  without  you."  His  voice 
vibrated,  reminding  her  of  the  voices  of  those  who  made 
sentimental  recitations  for  the  graphophone.  It  sounded 
absurd,  yet  it  did  not  repel  her:  something  within  her 
responded  to  it.  "Which  way  were  you  going?"  he  in 
quired. 

"Home,"  she  said. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"In  Fillmore  Street."  And  she  added  with  a  touch  of 
defiance  :  "  It's  a  little  street,  three  blocks  above  Hawthorne, 
off  East  Street." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said  vaguely,  as  though  he  had  not  under 
stood.  "  I'll  come  with  you  as  far  as  the  bridge  —  along 
the  canal.  I've  got  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

"  Can't  you  say  it  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't,  there  are  so  many  people  in  the  office  — 
so  many  interruptions,  I  mean.  And  then,  you  never  give 
me  a  chance." 

She  stood  hesitating,  a  struggle  going  «n  within  her.  He 
had  proposed  the  route  along  the  canal  because  nobody 
would  be  likely  to  recognize  them,  and  her  pride  resented 
this.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  the  sweet  allurement 
of  the  adventure  she  craved,  which  indeed  she  had  come  out 
to  seek  and  by  a  strange  fatality  found  —  since  he  had  ap 
peared  on  the  bridge  almost  as  soon  as  she  reached  it.  The 
sense  of  fate  was  strong  upon  her.  Curiosity  urged  her, 
and,  thanks  to  the  eulogy  she  had  read  of  him  that  day,  to 
the  added  impression  of  his  power  conveyed  by  the  trip 
through  the  mills,  Ditmar  loomed  larger  than  ever  in  her 
consciousness. 

"What  do  you  want  to  say?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  lots  of  things." 

She  felt  his  hand  slipping  under  her  arm,  his  fingers  press 
ing  gently  but  firmly  into  her  flesh,  and  the  experience  of 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  145 

being  impelled  by  a  power  stronger  than  herself,  a  masculine 
power,  was  delicious.  Her  arm  seemed  to  burn  where  he 
touched  her. 

"Have  I  done  something  to  offend  you?"  she  heard  him 
say.  "Or  is  it  because  you  don't  like  me?" 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  I  like  you  or  not,"  she  told  him. 
"  I  don't  like  seeing  you  —  this  way.  And  why  should  you 
want  to  know  me  and  see  me  outside  of  the  office?  I'm 
only  your  stenographer." 

"  Because  you're  you  —  because  you're  different  from  any 
woman  I  ever  met.  You  don't  understand  what  you  are 
—  you  don't  see  yourself." 

"I  made  up  my  mind  last  night  I  wouldn't  stay  in  your 
office  any  longer,"  she  informed  him. 

"  For  God's  sake,  why  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I've  been  afraid 
of  that.  Don't  go  —  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do.  I'll  be 
careful  —  I  won't  get  you  talked  about." 

"Talked  about!"  She  tore  herself  away  from  him. 
"Why  should  you  get  me  talked  about?"  she  cried. 

He  was  frightened.  "No,  no,"  he  stammered,  "I  didn't 
mean  —  " 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

" Well  —  as  you  say,  you're  my  stenographer,  but  that's 
no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  friends.  I  only  meant  —  I 
wouldn't  do  anything  to  make  our  friendship  the  subject  of 
gossip." 

Suddenly  she  began  to  find  a  certain  amusement  in  his 
confusion  and  penitence,  she  achieved  a  pleasurable  sense 
of  advantage,  of  power  over  him. 

"  WTiy  should  you  want  me  ?  I  don't  know  anything,  I've 
never  had  any  advantages  —  and  you  have  so  much.  I  read 
an  article  in  the  newspaper  about  you  today  —  Mr.  Caldwell 
gave  it  to  me — " 

"Did  you  like  it?"  he  interrupted,  naively. 


146  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Well,  in  some  places  it  was  rather  funny." 

"Funny?     How?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  She  had  been  quick  to  grasp  in  it 
the  journalistic  lack  of  restraint  hinted  at  by  Caldwell.  "  I 
liked  it,  but  I  thought  it  praised  you  too  much,  it  didn't 
criticize  you  enough." 

He  laughed.  In  spite  of  his  discomfort,  he  found  her 
candour  refreshing.  From  the  women  to  whom  he  had 
hitherto  made  love  he  had  never  got  anything  but  flattery. 

"I  want  you  to  criticize  me,"  he  said. 

But  she  went  on  relentlessly  :  — 

"When  I  read  in  that  article  how  successful  you  were, 
and  how  you'd  got  everything  you'd  started  out  to  get,  and 
how  some  day  you  might  be  treasurer  and  president  of  the 
Chippering  Mill,  well — "  Despairing  of  giving  adequate 
expression  to  her  meaning,  she  added,  "I  didn't  see  how  we 
could  be  friends." 

"You  wanted  me  for  a  friend?"  he  interrupted  eagerly. 

"I  couldn't  help  knowing  you  wanted  me  —  you've  shown 
it  so  plainly.  But  I  didn't  see  how  it  could  be.  You  asked 
me  where  I  lived  —  in  a  little  flat  that's  no  better  than  ay 
tenement.  I  suppose  you  would  call  it  a  tenement.  It's 
dark  and  ugly,  it  only  has  four  rooms,  and  it  smells  of  cooking. 
You  couldn't  come  there  —  don't  you  see  how  impossible 
it  is?  And  you  wouldn't  care  to  be  talked  about  yourself, 
either,"  she  added  vehemently. 

This  defiant  sincerity  took  him  aback.  He  groped  for 
words. 

"Listen  !"  he  urged.  "I  don't  want  to  do  anything  you 
wouldn't  like,  and  honestly  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if 
you  left  me.  I've  come  to  depend  on  you.  And  you  may 
not  believe  it,  but  when  I  got  that  Bradlaugh  order  I  thought 
of  you,  I  said  to  myself  '  She'll  be  pleased,  she'll  help  me  to 
put  it  over.'" 


THE  D^YELLIXG-PLACE   OF  LIGHT  147 

She  thrilled  at  this,  she  even  suffered  him,  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  herself,  to  take  her  arm  again. 

"How  could  I  help  you?" 

"  Oh,  in  a  thousand  ways  —  you  ought  to  know,  you  do 
a  good  deal  of  thinking  for  me,  and  you  can  help  me  by  just 
being  there.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  I  feel  somehow  that 
things  will  go  right.  I've  come  to  depend  on  you." 

He  was  a  little  surprised  to  find  himself  saying  these 
things  he  had  not  intended  to  say,  and  the  lighter  touch  he 
had  always  possessed  in  dealing  with  the  other  sex,  making 
him  the  envied  of  his  friends,  had  apparently  abandoned  him. 
He  was  appalled  at  the  possibility  of  losing  her. 

"I've  never  met  a  woman  like  you,"  he  went  on,  as  she 
remained  silent.  "  You're  different  —  I  don't  know  what  it 
is  about  you,  but  you  are."  His  voice  was  low,  caressing, 
his  head  was  bent  down  to  her,  his  shoulder  pressed  against 
her  shoulder.  "I've  never  had  a  woman  friend  before, 
I've  never  wanted  one  until  now." 

She  wondered  about  his  wife. 

"You've  got  brains  —  I've  never  met  a  woman  with 
brains." 

"Oh,  is  that  why?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Y'ou're  beautiful,"  he  whispered.  "It's  queer,  but  I 
didn't  know  it  at  first.  You're  more  beautiful  to-night  than 
I've  ever  seen  you." 

They  had  come  almost  to  Warren  Street.  Suddenly 
realizing  that  they  were  standing  in  the  light,  that  people 
were  passing  to  and  fro  over  the  end  of  the  bridge,  she  drew 
away  from  him  once  more,  this  time  more  gently. 

"Let's  walk  back  a  little  way,"  he  proposed. 

"I  must  go  home  —  it's  late." 

"It's  only  nine  o'clock." 

"I  have  an  errand  to  do,  and  they'll  expect  me.  Good 
night." 


148  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Just  one  more  turn!"  he  pleaded. 

But  she  shook  her  head,  backing  away  from  him. 

"You'll  see  me  to-morrow,"  she  told  him.  She  didn't 
know  why  she  said  that.  She  hurried  along  Warren  Street 
without  once  looking  over  her  shoulder ;  her  feet  seemed 
scarcely  to  touch  the  ground,  the  sound  of  music  was  in  her 
ears,  the  lights  sparkled.  She  had  had  an  adventure,  at 
last,  an  adventure  that  magically  had  transformed  her  life ! 
She  was  beautiful !  No  one  had  ever  told  her  that  before. 
And  he  had  said  that  he  needed  her.  She  smiled  as,  with 
an  access  of  tenderness,  in  spite  of  his  experience  and  power 
she  suddenly  felt  years  older  than  Ditmar.  She  could  help 
him !  .  .  . 

She  was  breathless  when  she  reached  the  shop  in  Faber 
Street. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said. 

"Oh  no,  we  don't  close  until  ten,"  answered  the 
saleswoman.  She  was  seated  quietly  sewing  under  the 
lamp. 

"I  wonder  whether  you'd  mind  if  I  put  on  my  old  suit 
again,  and  carried  this?"  Janet  asked. 

The  expression  of  sympathy  and  understanding  in  the 
woman's  eyes,  as  she  rose,  brought  the  blood  swiftly  to 
Janet's  face.  She  felt  that  her  secret  had  been  guessed. 
The  change  effected,  Janet  went  homeward  swiftly,  to  en 
counter,  on  the  corner  of  Faber  Street,  her  sister  Lise,  whose 
attention  was  immediately  attracted  by  the  bundle. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  angel  face?"  she  demanded. 

"A  new  suit,"  said  Janet. 

"  You  don't  tell  me  —  where'd  you  get  it  ?  at  the  Paris  ?  " 

"No,  at  Bowling's." 

"Say,  I'll  bet  it  was  that  plain  blue  thing  marked  down 
to  twenty!" 

"Well,"  what  if  it  was?" 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  149 

Lise,  when  surprised  or  scornful,  had  a  peculiarly  irritating 
way  of  whistling  through  her  teeth. 

"  Twenty  bucks !  Gee,  you'll  be  getting  your  clothes  in 
Boston  next.  Well,  as  sure  as  I  live  when  I  went  by  that 
window  the  other  day  when  they  first  knocked  it  down  I 
said  to  Sadie,  '  those  are  the  rags  Janet  would  buy  if  she  had 
the  ready.'  Have  you  got  another  raise  out  of  Ditmar?" 

"If  I  have,  it  isn't  any  business  of  yours,"  Janet  retorted. 
"I've  got  a  right  to  do  as  I  please  with  my  own  money." 

"Oh  sure,"  said  Lise,  and  added  darkly :  "I  guess  Ditmar 
likes  to  see  you  look  well." 

After  this  Janet  refused  obstinately  to  speak  to  Lise, 
to  answer,  when  they  reached  home,  her  pleadings  and 
complaints  to  their  mother  that  Janet  had  bought  a  new 
suit  and  refused  to  exhibit  it.  And  finally,  when  they 
had  got  to  bed,  Janet  lay  long  awake  in  passionate  revolt 
against  this  new  expression  of  the  sordidness  and  lack  of 
privacy  in  which  she  was  forced  to  live,  made  the  more  in 
tolerable  by  the  close,  sultry  darkness  of  the  room  and  the 
snoring  of  Lise, 


In  the  morning,  however,  after  a  groping  period  of  semi- 
consciousness  during  the  ringing  of  the  bells,  the  siren 
startled  her  into  awareness  and  alertness.  It  had  not 
wholly  lost  its  note  of  terror,  but  the  note  had  somehow 
become  exhilarating,  an  invitation  to  adventure  and  to  life ; 
and  Lise's  sarcastic  comments  as  to  the  probable  reasons 
why  she  did  not  put  on  the  new  suit  had  lost  their  power  of 
exasperation.  Janet  compromised,  wearing  a  blouse  of  china 
silk  hitherto  reserved  for  "best."  The  day  was  bright,  and 
she  went  rapidly  toward  the  mill,  glorying  in  the  sunshine  and 
the  autumn  sharpness  of  the  air ;  and  her  thoughts  were  not  so 
much  of  Ditmar  as  of  something  beyond  him,  of  which  he  was 


150  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

the  medium .  She  was  going,  not  to  meet  him,  but  to  meet  that. 
When  she  reached  the  office  she  felt  weak,  her  fingers  trembled 
as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  jacket  and  began  to  sort  out  the 
mail.  And  she  had  to  calm  herself  with  the  assurance  that 
her  relationship  with  Ditmar  had  undergone  no  change.  She 
had  merely  met  him  by  the  canal,  and  he  had  talked  to  her. 
That  was  all.  He  had,  of  course,  taken  her  arm  :  it  tingled 
when  she  remembered  it.  But  when  he  suddenly  entered  the 
room  her  heart  gave  a  bound.  He  closed  the  door,  he  took 
off  his  hat,  and  stood  gazing  at  her  —  while  she  continued 
arranging  letters.  Presently  she  was  forced  to  glance  at 
him.  His  bearing,  his  look,  his  confident  smile  all  pro 
claimed  that  he,  at  least,  believed  things  to  be  changed.  He 
glowed  with  health  and  vigour,  with  an  aggressiveness  from 
which  she  shrank,  yet  found  delicious. 

"How  are  you  this  morning?"  he  said  at  last  —  this 
morning  as  distinguished  from  all  other  mornings. 

"I'm  well,  as  usual,"  she  answered.  She  herself  was 
sometimes  surprised  by  her  ability  to  remain  outwardly  calm. 

"Why  did  you  run  away  from  me  last  night?" 

"I  didn't  run  away,  I  had  to  go  home,"  she  said,  still 
arranging  the  letters. 

"We  could  have  had  a  little  walk.  I  don't  believe  you 
had  to  go  home  at  all.  You  just  wanted  an  excuse  to  get 
away  from  me." 

"I  didn't  need  an  excuse,"  she  told  him.  He  moved 
toward  her,  but  she  took  a  paper  from  the  desk  and  carried 
it  to  a  file  across  the  room. 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  be  friends,"  he  said. 

"Being  friends  doesn't  mean  being  foolish,"  she  retorted. 
"And  Mr.  Orcutt's  waiting  to  see  you." 

"Let  him  wait." 

He  sat  down  at  his  desk,  but  his  blood  was  warm,  and 
he  read  the  typewritten  words  of  the  topmost  letter  of  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  151 

pile  without  so  much  as  grasping  the  meaning  of  them.  From 
time  to  time  he  glanced  up  at  Janet  as  she  flitted  about 
the  room.  By  George,  she  was  more  desirable  than  he  had 
ever  dared  to  imagine !  He  felt  temporarily  balked,  but 
hopeful.  On  his  way  to  the  mill  he  had  dwelt  with  Epicu 
rean  indulgence  on  this  sight  of  her,  and  he  had  not  been 
disappointed.  He  had  also  thought  that  he  might  venture 
upon  more  than  the  mere  feasting  of  his  eyes,  yet  found  an 
inspiring  alleviation  in  the  fact  that  she  by  no  means  ab 
solutely  repulsed  him.  Her  attitude  toward  him  had  under 
gone  a  subtle  transformation.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  She  was  almost  coquettish.  His  eyes  lingered.  The 
china  silk  blouse  was  slightly  open  at  the  neck,  suggesting 
the  fullness  of  her  throat;  it  clung  to  the  outline  of  her 
shoulders.  Overcome  by  an  impulse  he  could  not  control, 
he  got  up  and  went  toward  her,  but  she  avoided  him. 

"  I'll  tell  Mr.  Orcutt  you've  come,"  she  said,  rather  breath 
lessly,  as  she  reached  the  door  and  opened  it.  Ditmar 
halted  in  his  steps  at  the  sight  of  the  tall,  spectacled  figure 
of  the  superintendent  on  the  threshold. 

Orcutt  hesitated,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,"  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"the  rest  of  that  lot  didn't  come  in  this  morning.  I've 
telephoned  to  the  freight  agent." 

Ditmar  stared  at  him  uncomprehendingly.  Orcutt  re 
peated  the  information. 

"Oh  well,  keep  after  him,  get  him  to  trace  them." 

"I'm  doing  that,"  replied  the  conscientious  Orcutt. 

"How's  everything  else  going?"  Ditmar  demanded,  with 
unlooked-for  geniality.  "You  mustn't  take  things  too  hard, 
Orcutt,  don't  wear  yourself  out." 

Mr.  Orcutt  was  relieved.  He  had  expected  an  outburst 
of  the  exasperation  that  lately  had  characterized  his  superior. 
They  began  to  chat.  Janet  had  escaped. 


152  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Miss  Bumpus  told  me  you  wanted  to  see  me.  I  was 
just  going  to  ring  you  up,"  Ditmar  informed  him. 

"She's  a  clever  young  woman,  seems  to  take  such  an 
interest  in  things,"  Orcutt  observed.  "And  she's  always 
on  the  job.  Only  yesterday  I  saw  her  going  through  the 
mill  with  young  Caldwell." 

Ditmar  dropped  the  paper-weight  he  held. 

"Oh,  she  went  through,  did  she?" 

After  Orcutt  departed  he  sat  for  awhile  whistling 
a  tune  from  a  popular  musical  play,  keeping  time 
by  drumming  with  his  fingers  on  the  desk. 


That  Mr.  Semple,  the  mill  treasurer,  came  down  from 
Boston  that  morning  to  confer  with  Ditmar  was  for  Janet 
in  the  nature  of  a  reprieve.  She  sat  by  her  window,  and  as 
her  fingers  flew  over  the  typewriter  keys  she  was  swept 
by  surges  of  heat  in  which  ecstasy  and  shame  and  terror 
were  strangely  commingled.  A  voice  within  her  said, 
"  This  can't  go  on,  this  can't  go  on  !  It's  too  terrible  !  Every 
one  in  the  office  will  notice  it  —  there  will  be  a  scandal.  I 
ought  to  go  away  while  there  is  yet  time  —  to-day."  Though 
the  instinct  of  flight  was  strong  within  her,  she  was  filled 
with  rebellion  at  the  thought  of  leaving  when  Adventure 
was  flooding  her  drab  world  with  light,  even  as  the  mill 
across  the  waters  was  transfigured  by  the  heavy  golden 
wash  of  the  autumn  sun.  She  had  made  at  length  the  dis 
covery  that  Adventure  had  to  do  with  Man,  was  incon 
ceivable  without  him. 

Racked  by  these  conflicting  impulses  of  self-preservation 
on  the  one  hand  and  what  seemed  self-realization  on  the 
other,  she  started  when,  toward  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
she  heard  Ditmar's  voice  summoning  her  to  take  his  letters ; 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  153 

and  went  palpitating,  leaving  the  door  open  behind  her, 
seating  herself  on  the  far  side  of  the  desk,  her  head  bent 
over  her  book.  Her  neck,  where  her  hair  grew  in  wisps 
behind  her  ear,  seemed  to  burn  :  Ditmar's  glance  was  focussed 
there.  Her  hands  were  cold  as  she  wrote.  .  .  .  Then,  like 
a  deliverer,  she  saw  young  Caldwell  coming  in  from  the 
outer  office,  holding  a  card  in  his  hand  which  he  gave  to 
Ditmar,  who  sat  staring  at  it. 

"Siddons?"  he  said.     "Who's  Siddons?" 

Janet,  wrho  had  risen,  spoke  up. 

"Why,  he's  been  making  the  Hampton  'survey/  You 
wrote  him  you'd  see  him  —  don't  you  remember,  Mr.  Dit 
mar?" 

"Don't  go!"  exclaimed  Ditmar.  "You  can't  tell  what 
those  confounded  reformers  will  accuse  you  of  if  you  ion't 
have  a  witness." 

Janet  sat  down  again.  The  sharpness  of  Ditmar's  tone 
was  an  exhilarating  reminder  of  the  fact  that,  in  dealing 
with  strangers,  he  had  come  more  or  less  to  rely  on  her 
instinctive  judgment ;  while  the  implied  appeal  of  his  man 
ner  on  such  occasions  emphasized  the  pleasurable  sense  of 
his  dependence,  of  her  own  usefulness.  Besides,  she  had 
been  curious  about  the  'survey'  at  the  tune  it  was  first 
mentioned,  she  wished  to  hear  Ditmar's  views  concerning 
it.  Mr.  Siddons  proved  to  be  a  small  and  sallow  young 
man  with  a  pointed  nose  and  bright,  bulbous  brown  eyes 
like  a  chipmunk's.  Indeed,  he  reminded  one  of  a  chipmunk. 
As  he  whisked  himself  in  and  seized  Ditmar's  hand  he  gave 
a  confused  impression  of  polite  self-effacement  as  well  as 
of  dignity  and  self-assertion;  he  had  the  air  of  one  who 
expects  opposition,  and  though  by  no  means  desiring  it,  is 
prepared  to  deal  with  it.  Janet  smiled.  She  had  a  sudden 
impulse  to  drop  the  heavy  book  that  lay  on  the  corner  of 
the  desk  to  see  if  he  would  jump. 


154  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Ditmar?"  he  said.  "I've  been 
hoping  to  have  this  pleasure." 

"My  secretary,  Miss  Bumpus,"  said  Ditmar. 

Mr.  Siddons  quivered  and  bowed.  Ditmar,  sinking  pon 
derously  into  his  chair,  seemed  suddenly,  ironically  amused, 
grinning  at  Janet  as  he  opened  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and 
offered  the  visitor  a  cigar. 

"Thanks,  I  don't  smoke,"  said  Mr.  Siddons. 

Ditmar  lit  one  for  himself. 

"Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  as  I  wrote  you  in  my  letter,  I  was  engaged  to 
make  as  thorough  an  examination  as  possible  of  the  living 
conditions  and  housing  of  the  operatives  in  the  city  of 
Hampton.  I'm  sure  you'd  be  interested  in  hearing  some- 
thin0  of  the  situation  we  found." 

"I  suppose  you've  been  through  our  mills,"  said  Ditmar. 

"No,  the  fact  is—" 

"You  ought  to  go  through.  I  think  it  might  interest 
you,"  Ditmar  put  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  pronoun.  "We 
rather  pride  ourselves  on  making  things  comfortable  and 
healthy  for  our  people." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it  —  in  fact,  I've  been  so  informed. 
It's  because  of  your  concern  for  the  welfare  of  your 
workers  in  the  mills  that  I  ventured  to  come  and  talk 
to  you  of  how  most  of  them  live  when  they're  at  home," 
replied  Siddons,  as  Janet  thought,  rather  neatly.  "Per 
haps,  though  living  in  Hampton,  you  don't  quite  realize 
what  the  conditions  are.  I  know  a  man  who  has  lived  in 
Boston  ten  years  and  who  hasn't  ever  seen  the  Bunker  Hill 
monument." 

"The  Bunker  Hill  monument's  a  public  affair,"  retorted 
Ditmar,  "anybody  can  go  there  who  has  enough  curiosity 
and  interest.  But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  me  to 
follow  these  people  home  and  make  them  clean  up  their 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  155 

garbage  and  wash  their  babies.  I  shouldn't  want  anybody 
to  interfere  with  my  private  affairs." 

"  But  when  you  get  to  a  point  where  private  affairs  be 
come  a  public  menace?  "  Siddons  objected.  "Mr.  Ditmar, 
I've  seen  block  after  block  of  tenements  ready  to  crumble. 
There  are  no  provisions  for  foundations,  thickness  of  walls, 
size  of  timbers  and  columns,  and  if  these  houses  had  been 
deliberately  erected  to  make  a  bonfire  they  couldn't  have 
answered  the  purpose  better.  If  it  were  not  for  the  danger 
to  life  and  the  pity  of  making  thousands  of  families  home 
less,  a  conflagration  would  be  a  blessing,  although  I  believe 
the  entire  north  or  south  side  of  the  city  would  go  under 
certain  conditions.  The  best  thing  you  could  do  would  be 
to  burn  whole  rows  of  these  tenements,  they  are  ideal  breed 
ing  grounds  for  disease.  In  the  older  sections  of  the  city 
you've  got  hundreds  of  rear  houses  here,  houses  moved 
back  on  the  lots,  in  some  extreme  cases  with  only  four-foot 
courts  littered  with  refuse,  —  houses  without  light,  without 
ventilation,  and  many  of  the  rooms  where  these  people 
are  cooking  and  eating  and  sleeping  are  so  damp  and  foul 
they're  not  fit  to  put  dogs  in.  You've  got  some  blocks 
with  a  density  of  over  five  hundred  to  the  acre,  and  your 
average  density  is  considerably  over  a  hundred." 

"Are  things  any  worse  than  in  any  other  manufacturing 
city?"  asked  Ditmar. 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  said  Siddons.  ''The  point  is 
that  they're  bad,  they're  dangerous,  they're  inhuman.  If 
you  could  go  into  these  tenements  as  I  have  done  and  see 
the  way  some  of  these  people  live,  it  would  make  you  sick  — 
the  Poles  and  Lithuanians  and  Italians  especially.  You 
wouldn't  treat  cattle  that  way.  In  some  households  of  five 
rooms,  including  the  kitchen,  I  found  as  many  as  fourteen, 
fifteen,  and  once  seventeen  people  living.  You've  got  an 
alarming  infant  death-rate." 


156  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Isn't  it  because  these  people  want  to  live  that  way?" 
Ditmar  inquired.  "They  actually  like  it,  they  wouldn't  be 
happy  in  anything  but  a  pig-sty  —  they  had  'em  in  Europe. 
And  what  do  you  expect  us  to  do?  Buy  land  and  build 
flats  for  them  ?  Inside  of  a  month  they'd  have  all  the  wood 
work  stripped  off  for  kindling,  the  drainage  stopped  up,  the 
bathtubs  filled  with  ashes.  I  know,  because  it's  been  tried." 

Tilted  back  in  his  chair,  he  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  toward 
the  ceiling,  and  his  eyes  sought  Janet's.  She  avoided  them, 
resenting  a  little  the  assumption  of  approval  she  read  in 
them.  Her  mind,  sensitive  to  new  ideas,  had  been  keenly 
stimulated  as  she  listened  to  Siddons,  who  began  patiently 
to  dwell  once  more  on  the  ill  effect  of  the  conditions  he  had 
discovered  on  the  welfare  of  the  entire  community.  She 
had  never  thought  of  this.  She  was  surprised  that  Ditmar 
should  seem  to  belittle  it.  Siddons  was  a  new  type  in  her 
experience.  She  could  understand  and  to  a  certain  extent 
maliciously  enjoy  Ditmar's  growing  exasperation  with  him ; 
he  had  a  formal,  precise  manner  of  talking,  as  though  he 
spent  most  of  his  time  presenting  cases  in  committees :  and 
in  warding  off  Ditmar's  objections  he  was  forever  indulging 
in  such  maddening  phrases  as,  "Before  we  come  to  that, 
let  me  say  a  word  just  here."  Ditmar  hated  words.  His 
outbursts,  his  efforts  to  stop  the  flow  of  them  were  not  unlike 
the  futile  charges  of  a  large  and  powerful  animal  harassed 
by  a  smaller  and  more  agile  one.  With  nimble  politeness, 
with  an  exasperating  air  of  deference  to  Ditmar's  opinions, 
Mr.  Siddons  gave  ground,  only  to  return  to  the  charge; 
yet,  despite  a  manner  and  method  which,  when  contrasted 
to  Ditmar's,  verged  on  the  ludicrous,  Mr.  Siddons  had  a 
force  and  fire  of  his  own,  nervous,  almost  fanatical :  when 
he  dwelt  0£  the  misery  he  had  seen,  and  his  voice  trembled 
from  the  intensity  of  his  feeling,  Janet  began  to  be  moved. 
It  was  odd,  considering  the  struggle  for  existence  of  her 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  157 

own  family,  that  these  foreigners  had  remained  outside 
the  range  of  her  sympathy. 

"I  guess  you'll  find,"  Ditmar  had  interrupted  peremp 
torily,  "  I  guess  you'll  find,  if  you  look  up  the  savings  banks 
statistics,  these  people  have  got  millions  tucked  away. 
And  they  send  a  lot  of  it  to  the  other  side,  they  go  back 
themselves,  and  though  they  live  like  cattle,  they  manage 
to  buy  land.  Ask  the  real  estate  men.  Why,  I  could 
show  you  a  dozen  who  worked  in  the  mills  a  few  years  ago 
and  are  capitalists  to-day." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  Mr.  Ditmar,"  Siddons  gracefully 
conceded.  "But  what  does  it  prove?  Merely  the  cruelty 
of  an  economic  system  based  on  ruthless  competition.  The 
great  majority  who  are  unable  to  survive  the  test  pay  the 
price.  And  the  community  also  pays  the  price,  the  state 
and  nation  pay  it.  And  we  have  this  misery  on  our  con 
sciences.  I've  no  doubt  you  could  show  me  some  who  have 
grown  rich,  but  if  you  would  let  me  I  could  take  you  to 
families  in  desperate  want,  living  in  rooms  too  dark  to  read 
in  at  midday  in  clear  weather,  where  the  husband  doesn't 
get  more  than  seven  dollars  a  week  when  the  mills  are  run 
ning  full  time,  where  the  woman  has  to  look  out  for  the 
children  and  work  for  the  lodgers,  and  even  with  lodgers 
they  get  into  debt,  and  the  woman  has  to  go  into  the  mills 
to  earn  money  for  winter  clothing.  I've  seen  enough  in 
stances  of  this  kind  to  offset  the  savings  bank  argument. 
And  even  then,  when  you  have  a  family  where  the  wife  and 
older  children  work,  where  the  babies  are  put  out  to  board, 
where  there  are  three  and  four  lodgers  in  a  room,  why  do 
you  suppose  they  live  that  way?  Isn't  it  in  the  hope  of 
freeing  themselves  ultimately  from  these  very  conditions? 
And  aren't  these  conditions  a  disgrace  to  Hampton  and 
America?" 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  do  about  it?"  Ditmar  demanded. 


158  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  see  that  these  operatives  have  comfortable  and  health 
ful  surroundings  in  the  mill,  I've  spent  money  to  put  in 
the  latest  appliances.  That's  more  than  a  good  many  mills 
I  could  mention  attempt." 

"You  are  a  person  of  influence,  Mr.  Ditmar,  you  have 
more  influence  than  any  man  in  Hampton.  You  can  bring 
pressure  to  bear  on  the  city  council  to  enforce  and  improve 
the  building  ordinances,  you  can  organize  a  campaign  of 
public  opinion  against  certain  property  owners." 

"Yes,"  retorted  Ditmar,  "and  what  then?  You  raise 
the  rents,  and  you  won't  get  anybody  to  live  in  the  houses. 
They'll  move  out  to  settlements  like  Glendale  full  of  dirt 
and  vermin  and  disease  and  live  as  they're  accustomed  to. 
What  you  reformers  are  actually  driving  at  is  that  we  should 
raise  wages  —  isn't  it  ?  If  we  raised  wages  they'd  live 
like  rats  anyway.  I  give  you  credit  for  sincerity,  Mr. 
Siddons,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  not  as  much 
interested  in  the  welfare  of  these  people  as  you  and  the  men 
behind  you.  The  trouble  is,  you  only  see  one  side  of  this 
question.  WThen  you're  in  my  position,  you're  up  against 
hard  facts.  We  can't  pay  a  slubber  or  a  drawing  tender 
any  more  than  he's  worth,  whether  he  has  a  wife  or  children 
in  the  mills  or  whether  he  hasn't.  We're  in  competition 
with  other  mills,  we're  in  competition  with  the  South.  We 
can't  regulate  the  cost  of  living.  We  do  our  best  to  make 
things  right  in  the  mills,  and  that's  all  we  can  do.  We 
can't  afford  to  be  sentimental  about  life.  Competition's 
got  to  be  the  rule,  the  world's  made  that  way.  Some  are 
efficient  and  some  aren't.  Good  God,  any  man  who's  had 
anything  to  do  with  hiring  labour  and  running  a  plant  has 
that  drummed  into  him  hard.  You  talk  about  ordinances, 
laws  —  there  are  enough  laws  and  ordinances  in  this  city 
and  in  this  state  right  now.  If  we  have  any  more  the  mills 
will  have  to  shut  down,  and  these  people  will  starve  —  all 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF   LIGHT  159 

of  'em."  Ditmar's  chair  came  down  on  its  four  legs,  and 
he  flung  his  cigar  away.  "Send  me  a  copy  of  your  survey 
when  it's  published.  I'll  look  it  over." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  nerve  of  a  man  like 
that?"  Ditmar  exploded,  when  Mr.  Siddons  had  bowed 
himself  out.  "Comes  in  here  to  advise  me  that  it's  my 
business  to  look  out  for  the  whole  city  of  Hampton.  I'd 
like  to  see  him  up  against  this  low-class  European  labour  — 
trying  to  run  a  mill  with  them.  They're  here  one  day  and 
there  the  next,  they  don't  know  what  loyalty  is.  You've 
got  to  drive  'em  —  if  you  give  'em  an  inch  they'll  jump  at 
your  throat,  dynamite  your  property.  Why,  there's  nothing 
I  wouldn't  do  for  them  if  I  could  depend  on  them,  I'd  build 
'em  houses,  I'd  have  automobiles  to  take  'em  home.  As  it 
is,  I  do  my  best,  though  they  don't  deserve  it,  —  in  slack 
seasons  I  run  half  time  when  I  oughtn't  to  be  running  at  all." 

His  tone  betrayed  an  effort  of  self-justification,  and  his 
irritation  had  been  increased  by  the  suspicion  in  Janet  of 
a  certain  lack  of  the  sympathy  on  which  he  had  counted. 
She  sat  silent,  gazing  searchingly  at  his  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "You  don't  mean 
to  say  you  agree  with  that  kind  of  talk  ?  " 

"I  was  wondering — "  she  began. 

"What?" 

"  If  you  were  —  if  you  could  really  understand  those 
who  are  driven  to  work  in  order  to  keep  alive  ?  " 

"Understand  them!     Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  —  because  you're  on  top,  you've  always  been 
successful,  you're  pretty  much  your  own  master  —  and  that 
makes  it  different.  I'm  not  blaming  you  —  in  your  place 
I'd  be  the  same,  I'm  sure.  But  this  man,  Siddons,  made 
me  think.  I've  lived  like  that,  you  see,  I  know  what  it  is, 
in  a  way." 

"Not  like  these  foreigners!"  he  protested. 


160  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Oh,  almost  as  bad,"  she  cried  with  vehemence,  and 
Ditmar,  stopped  suddenly  in  his  pacing  as  by  a  physical 
force,  looked  at  her  with  the  startled  air  of  the  male  who 
has  inadvertently  touched  off  one  of  the  many  hidden  springs 
in  the  feminine  emotional  mechanism.  "How  do  you 
know  what  it  is  to  live  in  a  squalid,  ugly  street,  in  dark 
little  rooms  that  smell  of  cooking,  and  not  be  able  to  have 
any  of  the  finer,  beautiful  things  in  life?  Unless  you'd 
wanted  these  things  as  I've  wanted  them,  you  couldn't 
know.  Oh,  I  can  understand  what  it  would  feel  like  to 
strike,  to  wish  to  dynamite  men  like  you ! " 

"You  can!"  he  exclaimed  in  amazement.     "You!" 

"Yes,  me.  You  don't  understand  these  people,  you 
couldn't  feel  sorry  for  them  any  more  than  you  could  feel 
sorry  for  me.  You  want  them  to  run  your  mills  for  you, 
you  don't  want  to  know  how  they  feel  or  how  they  live,  and 
you  just  want  me  —  for  your  pleasure." 

He  was  indeed  momentarily  taken  aback  by  this  taunt, 
which  no  woman  in  his  experience  had  had  the  wit  and  spirit 
to  fling  at  him,  but  he  was  not  the  type  of  man  to  be  shocked 
by  it.  On  the  contrary,  it  swept  away  his  irritation,  and 
as  a  revelation  of  her  inner  moltenness  stirred  him  to  a 
fever  heat  as  he  approached  and  stood  over  her. 

"You  little  —  panther!"  he  whispered.  "You  want 
beautiful  things,  do  you?  Well,  I'll  give  'em  to  you.  I'll 
take  care  of  you." 

"Do  you  think  I  want  them  from  you?"  she  retorted, 
almost  in  tears.  "Do  you  think  I  want  anybody  to  take 
care  of  me?  That  shows  how  little  you  know  me.  I  want 
to  be  independent,  to  do  my  work  and  pay  for  what  I  get." 

Janet  herself  was  far  from  comprehending  the  complexity 
of  her  feelings.  Ditmar  had  not  apologized  or  feigned  an 
altruism  for  which  she  would  indeed  have  despised  him. 
The  ruthlessness  of  his  laugh  —  the  laugh  of  the  red-blooded 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF   LIGHT  161 

man  who  makes  laws  that  he  himself  may  be  lawless  — 
shook  her  with  a  wild  appeal.  "  What  do  I  care  about  any 
others  —  I  want  you ! "  such  was  its  message.  And  against 
this  paradoxical  wish  to  be  conquered,  intensified  by  the 
magnetic  field  of  his  passion,  battled  her  self-assertion, 
her  pride,  her  innate  desire  to  be  free,  to  escape  now  from 
a  domination  the  thought  of  which  filled  her  with  terror. 
She  felt  his  cheek  brushing  against  her  hair,  his  fingers 
straying  along  her  arm ;  for  the  moment  she  was  hideously 
yet  deliciously  powerless.  Then  the  emotion  of  terror 
conquered  —  terror  of  the  unknown  —  and  she  sprang 
away,  dropping  her  note-book  and  running  to  the  window, 
where  she  stood  swaying. 

"Janet,  you're  killing  me,"  she  heard  him  say.  "For 
God's  sake,  why  can't  you  trust  me?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  gazed  out  at  the  primrose  lights 
beginning  to  twinkle  fantastically  in  the  distant  mills. 
Presently  she  turned.  Ditmar  was  in  his  chair.  She 
crossed  the  room  to  the  electric  switch,  turning  on  the  flood 
of  light,  picked  up  her  note-book  and  sat  down  again. 

"  Don't  you  intend  to  answer  your  letters  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  reached  out  gropingly  toward  the  pile  of  his  corre 
spondence,  seized  the  topmost  letter,  and  began  to  dictate, 
savagely.  She  experienced  a  certain  exultation,  a  renewed 
and  pleasurable  sense  of  power  as  she  took  down  his  words. 


CHAPTER  IX 


AT  certain  moments  during  the  days  that  followed  the 
degree  of  tension  her  relationship  with  Ditmar  had  achieved 
tested  the  limits  of  Janet's  ingenuity  and  powers  of  resistance. 
Yet  the  sense  of  mastery  at  being  able  to  hold  such  a  man 
in  leash  was  by  no  means  unpleasurable  to  a  young  woman 
of  her  vitality  and  spirit.  There  was  always  the  excite 
ment  that  the  leash  might  break  —  and  then  what  ?  Here 
was  a  situation,  she  knew  instinctively,  that  could  not 
last,  one  fraught  with  all  sorts  of  possibilities,  intoxicating 
or  abhorrent  to  contemplate ;  and  for  that  very  reason  fas 
cinating.  When  she  was  away  from  Ditmar  and  tried  to 
think  about  it  she  fell  into  an  abject  perplexity,  so  full  was 
it  of  anomalies  and  contradictions,  of  conflicting  impulses ; 
so  far  beyond  her  knowledge  and  experience.  For  Janet 
had  been  born  in  an  age  which  is  rapidly  discarding  blanket 
morality  and  taboos,  which  has  as  yet  to  achieve  the  morality 
of  scientific  knowledge,  of  the  individual  instance.  Tradi 
tion,  convention,  the  awful  examples  portrayed  for  gain 
in  the  movies,  even  her  mother's  pessimistic  attitude  in 
regard  to  the  freedom  with  which  the  sexes  mingle  to-day 
were  powerless  to  influence  her.  The  thought,  however, 
that  she  might  fundamentally  resemble  her  sister  Lise, 
despite  a  fancied  superiority,  did  occasionally  shake  her 
and  bring  about  a  revulsion  against  Ditmar.  Janet's 
problem  was  in  truth,  though  she  failed  so  to  specialize  it, 
the  supreme  problem  of  our  time :  what  is  the  path  to  self- 

162 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  163 

realization?  how  achieve  emancipation  from  the  common 
place  ? 

Was  she  in  love  with  Ditmar?  The  question  was  dis 
tasteful,  she  avoided  it,  for  enough  of  the  tatters  of  orthodox 
Christianity  clung  to  her  to  cause  her  to  feel  shame  when 
she  contemplated  the  feelings  he  aroused  in  her.  It  was 
when  she  asked  herself  what  his  intentions  were  that  her 
resentment  burned,  pride  and  a  sense  of  her  own  value 
convinced  her  that  he  had  deeply  insulted  her  in  not  offer 
ing  marriage.  Plainly,  he  did  not  intend  to  offer  marriage ; 
on  the  other  hand,  if  he  had  done  so,  a  profound,  self-respect 
ing  and  moral  instinct  in  her  would,  in  her  present  mood, 
have  led  her  to  refuse.  She  felt  a  fine  scorn  for  the  woman 
who,  under  the  circumstances,  would  insist  upon  a  bond 
and  all  a  man's  worldly  goods  in  return  for  that  which  it 
was  her  privilege  to  give  freely ;  while  the  notion  of  servility, 
of  economic  dependence  —  though  she  did  not  so  phrase  it 
—  repelled  her  far  more  than  the  possibility  of  social  ruin. 
This  she  did  not  contemplate  at  all;  her  impulse  to  leave 
Hampton  and  Ditmar  had  nothing  to  do  with  that.  .  .  . 

Away  from  Ditmar,  this  war  of  inclinations  possessed 
her  waking  mind,  invaded  her  dreams.  When  she  likened 
herself  to  the  other  exploited  beings  he  drove  to  run  his 
mills  and  fill  his  orders,  —  of  whom  Mr.  Siddons  had  spoken 
-her  resolution  to  leave  Hampton  gained  such  definite 
ascendancy  that  her  departure  seemed  only  a  matter  of  hours. 
In  this  perspective  Ditmar  appeared  so  ruthless,  his  purpose 
to  use  her  and  fling  her  away  so  palpable,  that  she  despised 
herself  for  having  hesitated.  A  longing  for  retaliation 
consumed  her ;  she  wished  to  hurt  him  before  she  left.  At 
such  times,  however,  unforeseen  events  invariably  intruded 
to  complicate  her  feelings  and  alter  her  plans.  One  evening 
at  supper,  for  instance,  when  she  seemed  at  last  to  have 
achieved  the  comparative  peace  of  mind  that  follows  a  de- 


164  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

cision  after  struggle,  she  gradually  became  aware  of  an  out 
burst  from  Hannah  concerning  the  stove,  the  condition  of 
which  for  many  months  had  been  a  menace  to  the  welfare 
of  the  family.  Edward,  it  appeared,  had  remarked  mildly 
on  the  absence  of  beans. 

"Beans!"  Hannah  cried.  "You're  lucky  to  have  any 
supper  at  all.  I  just  wish  I  could  get  you  to  take  a  look 
at  that  oven  —  there's  a  hole  you  can  put  your  hand  through, 
if  you've  a  mind  to.  I've  done  my  best,  I've  made  out  to 
patch  it  from  time  to  time,  and  to-day  I  had  Mr.  Tiernan  in. 
He  says  it's  a  miracle  I've  been  able  to  bake  anything.  A  new 
one'll  cost  thirty  dollars,  and  I  don't  know  where  the  money's 
coming  from  to  buy  it.  And  the  fire-box  is  most  worn 
through." 

"Well,  mother,  we'll  see  what  we  can  do,"  said  Edward. 

"You're  always  seeing  what  you  can  do,  but  I  notice 
you  never  do  anything,"  retorted  Hannah;  and  Edward 
had  the  wisdom  not  to  reply.  Beside  his  place  lay  a  lengthy, 
close-written  letter,  and  from  time  to  time,  as  he  ate  his 
canned  pears,  his  hand  turned  over  one  of  its  many  sheets. 

"It's  from  Eben  Wheeler,  says  he's  been  considerably 
troubled  with  asthma,"  he  observed  presently.  "  His  mother 
was  a  Bumpus,  a  daughter  of  Caleb  —  descended  from  Robert, 
who  went  from  Dolton  to  Tewksbury  in  1816,  and  fought 
in  the  war  of  1812.  I've  told  you  about  him.  This  Caleb 
was  born  in  '53,  and  he's  living  now  with  his  daughter's 
family  in  Detroit.  .  .  .  Son-in-law's  named  Nott,  doing 
well  with  a  construction  company.  Now  I  never  could  find 
out  before  what  became  of  Robert's  descendants.  He  mar 
ried  Sarah  Styles"  (reading  painfully)  "'and  they  had  issue, 
John,  Robert,  Anne,  Susan,  Eliphalet.  John  went  to 
Middlebury,  Vermont,  and  married  — 

Hannah,  gathering  up  the  plates,  clattered  them  together 
noisily. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  165 

"  A  lot  of  good  it  does  us  to  have  all  that  information 
about  Eben  Wheeler's  asthma!"  she  complained.  "It'll 
buy  us  a  new  stove,  I  guess.  Him  and  his  old  Bumpus 
papers !  If  the  house  burned  down  over  our  heads  that's 
all  he'd  think  of." 

As  she  passed  to  and  fro  from  the  dining-room  to  the 
kitchen  Hannah's  lamentations  continued,  grew  more  and 
more  querulous.  Accustomed  as  Janet  was  to  these  fre 
quent  arraignments  of  her  father's  inefficiency,  it  was  grad 
ually  borne  in  upon  her  now  —  despite  a  preoccupation  with 
her  own  fate  —  that  the  affair  thus  plaintively  voiced  by 
her  mother  was  in  effect  a  family  crisis  of  the  first  magni 
tude.  She  was  stirred  anew  to  anger  and  revolt  against  a 
life  so  precarious  and  sordid  as  to  be  threatened  in  its  con 
tinuity  by  the  absurd  failure  of  a  stove,  when,  glancing 
at  her  sister,  she  felt  a  sharp  pang  of  self-conviction,  of 
self-disgust.  W^as  she,  also,  like  that,  indifferent  and  self- 
absorbed  ?  Lise,  in  her  evening  finery,  looking  occasionally 
at  the  clock,  was  awaiting  the  hour  set  for  a  rendezvous, 
whiling  away  the  time  with  the  Boston  evening  sheet  whose 
glaring  red  headlines  stretched  across  the  page.  When 
the  newspaper  fell  to  her  lap  a  dreamy  expression  clouded 
Lise's  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  some  man !  Quickly 
Janet  looked  away,  at  her  father,  only  to  be  repelled  anew 
by  the  expression,  almost  of  fatuity,  she  discovered  on  his 
face  as  he  bent  over  the  letter  once  more.  Suddenly  she 
experienced  an  overwhelming  realization  of  the  desperation 
of  Hannah's  plight,  —  the  destiny  of  spending  one's  days, 
without  sympathy,  toiling  in  the  confinement  of  these  rooms 
to  supply  their  bodily  needs.  Never  had  a  destiny  seemed 
so  appalling.  And  yet  Janet  resented  that  pity.  The 
effect  of  it  was  to  fetter  and  inhibit ;  from  the  moment  of 
its  intrusion  she  was  no  longer  a  free  agent,  to  leave  Hamp 
ton  and  Ditrnar  when  she  chose.  Without  her,  this  family 


166  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

was  helpless.  She  rose,  and  picked  up  some  of  the  dishes. 
Hannah  snatched  them  from  her  hands. 

"Leave  'em  alone,  Janet!"  she  said  with  unaccustomed 
sharpness.  "I  guess  I  ain't  too  feeble  to  handle  'em  yet." 

And  a  flash  of  new  understanding  came  to  Janet.  The 
dishes  were  vicarious,  a  substitute  for  that  greater  destiny 
out  of  which  Hannah  had  been  cheated  by  fate.  A  sub 
stitute,  yes,  a  ad  perhaps  become  something  of  a  mania, 
like  her  father's  Bumpus  papers.  .  .  .  Janet  left  the  room 
swiftly,  entered  the  bedroom,  put  on  her  coat  and  hat,  and 
went  out.  Across  the  street  the  light  in  Mr.  Tiernan's 
shop  was  still  burning,  and  through  the  window  she  per 
ceived  Mr.  Tiernan  himself  tilted  back  in  his  chair,  his  feet 
on  the  table,  the  tip  of  his  nose  pointed  straight  at  the 
ceiling.  When  the  bell  betrayed  the  opening  of  the  door 
he  let  down  his  chair  on  the  floor  with  a  bang. 

"Why,  it's  Miss  Janet!"  he  exclaimed.  "How  are  you 
this  evening,  now  ?  I  was  just  hoping  some  one  would  pay 
me  a  call." 

Twinkling  at  her,  he  managed,  somewhat  magically,  to  dis 
pel  her  temper  of  pessimism,  and  she  was  moved  to  reply :  — 

"You  know  you  were  having  a  beautiful  time,  all  by 
yourself." 

"A  beautiful  time,  is  it?  Maybe  it's  because  I  was 
dreaming  of  some  young  lady  a-coming  to  pay  me  a  visit." 

"Well,  dreams  never  come  up  to  expectations,  do  they?" 

"Then  it's  dreaming  I  am,  still,"  retorted  Mr.  Tiernan, 
quickly. 

Janet  laughed.  His  tone,  though  bantering,  was  respect 
ful.  One  of  the  secrets  of  Mr.  Tiernan's  very  human  success 
was  due  to  his  ability  to  estimate  his  fellow  creatures.  His 
manner  of  treating  Janet,  for  instance,  was  quite  different 
from  that  he  employed  in  dealing  with  Lise.  In  the  course 
of  one  interview  he  had  conveyed  to  Lise,  without  arousing 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  167 

her  antagonism,  the  conviction  that  it  was  wiser  to  trust 
him  than  to  attempt  to  pull  wool  over  his  eyes.  Janet  had 
the  intelligence  to  trust  him  ;  and  to-night,  as  she  faced  him, 
the  fact  was  brought  home  to  her  with  peculiar  force  that 
this  wiry-haired  little  man  was  the  person  above  all  others 
of  her  immediate  acquaintance  to  seek  in  time  of  trouble. 
It  was  his  great  quality.  Moreover,  Mr.  Tiernan,  even 
in  his  morning  greetings  as  she  passed,  always  contrived 
to  convey  to  her,  in  some  unaccountable  fashion,  the  admira 
tion  and  regard  in  which  he  held  her,  and  the  effect  of  her 
contact  with  him  was  invariably  to  give  her  a  certain  ob 
jective  image  of  herself,  an  increased  self-confidence  and 
self-respect.  For  instance,  by  the  light  dancing  in  Mr. 
Tiernan's  eyes  as  he  regarded  her,  she  saw  herself  now  as 
the  mainstay  of  the  helpless  family  in  the  clay-yellow  flat 
across  the  street.  And  there  was  nothing,  she  was  con 
vinced,  Mr.  Tiernan  did  not  know  about  that  family.  So 
she  said :  — 

"  I've  come  to  see  about  the  stove." 

"Sure,"  he  replied,  as  much  as  to  say  that  the  visit  was 
not  unexpected.  "Well,  I've  been  thinking  about  it,  Miss 
Janet.  I've  got  a  stove  here  I  know'll  suit  your  mother. 
It's  a  Reading,  it's  almost  new.  Ye'd  better  be  having  a 
look  at  it  yourself." 

He  led  her  into  a  chaos  of  stoves,  grates,  and  pipes  at  the 
back  of  the  store. 

"It's  in  need  of  a  little  polish,"  he  added,  as  he  turned 
on  a  light,  "  but  it's  sound,  and  a  good  baker,  and  economical 
with  coal."  He  opened  the  oven  and  took  off  the  lids. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much  about  stoves,"  she  told 
him.  "But  I'll  trust  your  judgment.  How  much  is  it?" 
she  inquired  hesitatingly. 

He  ran  his  hand  through  his  corkscrewed  hair,  his  familiar 
gesture. 


168  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Well,  I'm  willing  to  let  ye  have  it  for  twenty-five  dollars. 
If  that's  too  much  —  mebbe  we  can  find  another." 

"  Can  you  put  it  in  to-morrow  morning  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  can  that,"  he  said.  She  drew  out  her  purse.  "Ye 
needn't  be  paying  for  it  all  at  once,"  he  protested,  laying 
a  hand  on  her  arm.  "You  won't  be  running  away/' 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  —  I  have  the  money,"  she  declared 
hurriedly;  and  she  turned  her  back  that  he  might  not  per 
ceive,  when  she  had  extracted  the  bills,  how  little  was  left 
in  her  purse. 

"I'll  wager  ye  won't  be  wanting  another  soon,"  he  said, 
as  he  escorted  her  to  the  door.  And  he  held  it  open,  politely, 
looking  after  her,  until  she  had  crossed  the  street,  calling 
out  a  cheerful  "Good-night"  that  had  in  it  something 
of  a  benediction.  She  avoided  the  dining-room  and  went 
straight  to  bed,  in  a  strange  medley  of  feelings.  The  self- 
sacrifice  had  brought  a  certain  self-satisfaction  not  wholly 
unpleasant.  She  had  been  equal  to  the  situation,  and  a 
part  of  her  being  approved  of  this,  —  a  part  which  had  been 
suppressed  in  another  mood  wherein  she  had  become  con 
vinced  that  self-realization  lay  elsewhere.  Life  was  indeed 
a  bewildering  thing.  .  .  „ 


The  next  morning,   at  breakfast,   though  her  mother's 

complaints  continued,  Janet  was  silent  as  to  her  purchase, 

and  she  lingered  on  her  return  home  in  the  evening  because 

she  now  felt  a  reluctance  to  appear  in  the  role  of  protector 

and  preserver  of  the  family.     She  would  have  preferred, 

if  possible,  to  give  the  stove  anonymously.     Not  that  the 

expression  of  Hannah's  gratitude  was  maudlin;    she  glared 

at  Janet  when  she  entered  the  dining-room  and  exclaimed  :  — 

"You  hadn't  ought  to  have  gone  and  done  it !" 

And  Janet  retorted,  with  almost  equal  vehemence :  — 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  169 

"Somebody  had  to  do  it  — didn't  they?  Who  else  was 
there?" 

"  It's  a  shame  for  you  to  spend  your  money  on  such  things. 
You'd  ought  to  save  it  —  you'll  need  it,"  Hannah  continued 
illogically. 

"It's  lucky  I  had  the  money,"  said  Janet. 

Both  Janet  and  Hannah  knew  that  these  recriminations, 
from  the  other,  were  the  explosive  expressions  of  deep  feeling. 
Janet  knew  that  her  mother  was  profoundly  moved  by  her 
sacrifice.  She  herself  was  moved  by  Hannah's  plight,  but 
tenderness  and  pity  were  complicated  by  a  renewed 
sense  of  rebellion  against  an  existence  that  exacted  such  a 
situation. 

"I  hope  the  stove's  all  right,  mother,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Tiernan  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  good  one." 

"It's  a  different  thing,"  declared  Hannah.  "I  was  just 
wondering  this  evening,  before  you  came  in,  how  I  ever 
made  out  to  cook  anything  on  the  other.  Come  and  see 
how  nice  it  looks." 

Janet  followed  her  into  the  kitchen.  As  they  stood 
close  together  gazing  at  the  new  purchase  Janet  was  un 
comfortably  aware  of  drops  that  ran  a  little  way  in  the 
furrows  of  Hannah's  cheeks,  stopped,  and  ran  on  again. 
She  seized  her  apron  and  clapped  it  to  her  face. 

"You  hadn't  ought  to  be  made  to  do  it !"  she  sobbed. 

And  Janet  was  suddenly  impelled  to  commit  an  act  rare 
in  their  intercourse.  She  kissed  her,  swiftly,  on  the  cheek, 
and  fled  from  the  room.  .  .  . 

Supper  was  an  ordeal.  Janet  did  not  relish  her  enthrone 
ment  as  a  heroine,  she  deplored  and  even  resented  her 
mother's  attitude  toward  her  father,  which  puzzled  her; 
for  the  studied  cruelty  of  it  seemed  to  belie  her  affection 
for  him.  Every  act  and  gesture  and  speech  of  Hannah's 
took  on  the  complexion  of  an  invidious  reference  to  her 


170  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

reliability  as  compared  with  Edward's  worthlessness  as  a 
provider;  and  she  contrived  in  some  sort  to  make  the  meal 
a  sacrament  in  commemoration  of  her  elder  daughter's  act. 

"I  guess  you  notice  the  difference  in  that  pork,"  she  would 
exclaim,  and  when  he  praised  it  and  attributed  its  excellence 
to  Janet's  gift  Hannah  observed :  "  As  long  as  you  ain't 
got  a  son,  you're  lucky  to  have  a  daughter  like  her !" 

Janet  squirmed.  Her  father's  acceptance  of  his  compara 
tive  worthlessness  was  so  abject  that  her  pity  was  transferred 
to  him,  though  she  scorned  him,  as  on  former  occasions,  for 
the  self-depreciation  that  made  him  powerless  before  her 
mother's  reproaches.  After  the  meal  was  over  he  sat  list 
lessly  on  the  sofa,  like  a  visitor  whose  presence  is  endured, 
pathetically  refraining  from  that  occupation  in  which  his 
soul  found  refreshment  and  peace,  the  compilation  of  the 
Bumpus  genealogy.  That  evening  the  papers  remained 
under  the  lid  of  the  desk  in  the  corner,  untouched. 

What  troubled  Janet  above  all,  however,  was  the  attitude 
of  Lise,  who  also  came  in  for  her  share  of  implied  reproach. 
Of  late  Lise  had  become  an  increased  source  of  anxiety  to 
Hannah,  who  was  unwisely  resolved  to  make  this  occasion 
an  object  lesson.  And  though  parental  tenderness  had 
often  moved  her  to  excuse  and  defend  Lise  for  an  increasing, 
remissness  in  failing  to  contribute  to  the  household  expenses, 
she  was  now  quite  relentless  in  her  efforts  to  wring  from 
Lise  an  acknowledgment  of  the  nobility  of  her  sister's  act, 
of  qualities  in  Janet  that  she,  Lise,  might  do  well  to  cultivate. 
Lise  was  equally  determined  to  withhold  any  such  acknowl 
edgment  ;  in  her  face  grew  that  familiar  mutinous  look  that 
Hannah  invariably  failed  to  recognize  as  a  danger  signal; 
and  with  it  another  —  the  sophisticated  expression  of  one 
who  knows  life  and  ridicules  the  lack  of  such  knowledge  in 
others.  Its  implication  was  made  certain  when  the  two 
girls  were  alone  in  their  bedroom  after  supper.  Lise,  fever- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  171 

ishly  occupied  with  her  toilet,  on  her  departure  broke  the 
silence  there  by  inquiring  :  — 

"Say,  if  I  had  your  easy  money,  I  might  buy  a  stove,  too. 
How  much  does  Ditrnar  give  you,  sweetheart?" 

Janet,  infuriated,  flew  at  her  sister.  Lise  struggled  to 
escape. 

"Leave  me  go!"  she  whimpered  in  genuine  alarm,  and 
when  at  length  she  was  released  she  went  to  the  mirror  and 
began  straightening  her  hat,  which  had  flopped  to  one  side 
of  her  head.  "I  didn't  mean  nothin',  I  was  only  kiddin' 
you  — what's  the  use  of  gettin'  nutty  over  a  jest?" 

"I'm  not  like  you,"  said  Janet. 

"I  was  only  kiddin',  I  tell  you,"  insisted  Lise,  with  a  hat 
pin  in  her  mouth.  "Forget  it." 

When  Lise  had  gone  out  Janet  sat  down  in  the  rocking- 
chair  and  began  to  rock  agitatedly.  What  had  really  made 
her  angry,  she  began  to  perceive,  was  the  realization  of  a 
certain  amount  of  truth  in  her  sister's  intimation  concern 
ing  Ditmar.  Why  should  she  have,  in  Lise,  continually 
before  her  eyes  a  degraded  caricature  of  her  own  aspirations 
and  ideals  ?  or  was  Lise  a  mirror  —  somewhat  tarnished, 
indeed  —  in  which  she  read  the  truth  about  herself  ?  For 
some  time  Janet  had  more  than  suspected  that  her  sister 
possessed  a  new  lover  —  a  lover  whom  she  refrained  from 
discussing;  an  ominous  sign,  since  it  had  been  her  habit 
to  dangle  her  conquests  before  Janet's  eyes,  to  discuss 
their  merits  and  demerits  with  an  engaging  though  cynical 
freedom.  Although  the  existence  of  this  gentleman  was 
based  on  evidence  purely  circumstantial,  Janet  was  inclined 
to  believe  him  of  a  type  wholly  different  from  his  predeces 
sors;  and  the  fact  that  his  attentions  were  curiously  inter 
mittent  and  irregular  inclined  her  to  the  theory  that  he  was 
not  a  resident  of  Hampton.  What  wTas  he  like?  It  re 
volted  her  to  reflect  that  he  might  in  some  ways  possibly 


172  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

resemble  Ditmar.  Thus  he  became  the  object  of  a  morbid 
speculation,  especially  at  such  times  as  this,  when  Lise 
attired  herself  in  her  new  winter  finery  and  went  forth  to 
meet  him.  Janet,  also,  had  recently  been  self-convicted 
of  sharing  with  Lise  the  same  questionable  tendency  toward 
self-adornment  to  please  the  eye  of  man.  The  very  next 
Saturday  night  after  she  had  indulged  in  that  mad  extrava 
gance  of  the  blue  suit,  Lise  had  brought  home  from  the 
window  of  The  Paris  in  Faber  Street  a  hat  that  had 
excited  the  cupidity  and  admiration  of  Miss  Schuler  and 
herself,  and  in  front  of  which  they  had  stood  languishing 
on  three  successive  evenings.  In  its  acquisition  Lise  had 
expended  almost  the  whole  of  a  week's  salary.  Its  colour 
was  purple,  on  three  sides  were  massed  drooping  lilac 
feathers,  but  over  the  left  ear  the  wide  brim  was  caught  up 
and  held  by  a  crescent  of  brilliant  paste  stones.  Shortly 
after  this  purchase  —  the  next  week,  in  fact,  —  The 
Paris  had  alluringly  and  craftily  displayed,  for  the  tempt 
ing  sum  of  $6.29,  the  very  cloak  ordained  by  providence 
to  "go"  with  the  hat.  Miss  Schuler  declared  it  would  be 
a  crime  to  fail  to  take  advantage  of  such  an  opportunity  — 
but  the  trouble  was  that  Lise  had  had  to  wait  for  two  more 
pay-days  and  endure  the  suspense  arising  from  the  possi 
bility  that  some  young  lady  of  taste  and  means  might  mean 
while  become  its  happy  proprietor.  Had  not  the  saleslady 
been  obdurate,  Lise  would  have  had  it  on  credit;  but  she 
did  succeed,  by  an  initial  payment  the  ensuing  Saturday,  in 
having  it  withdrawn  from  public  gaze.  The  second  Satur 
day  Lise  triumphantly  brought  the  cloak  home;  a  velvet 
cloak,  —  if  the  eyes  could  be  believed,  —  velvet  bordering 
on  plush,  with  a  dark  purple  ground  delicately  and  artis 
tically  spotted  with  a  lilac  to  match  the  hat  feathers,  and 
edged  with  a  material  which  —  if  not  too  impudently  ex 
amined  and  no  questions  asked  —  might  be  mistaken,  by 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  173 

the  uninitiated  male,  for  the  fur  of  a  white  fox.  Both  in 
vestments  had  been  made,  needless  to  say,  on  the  strength 
of  Janet's  increased  salary ;  and  Lise,  when  Janet  had  sur 
prised  her  before  the  bureau  rapturously  surveying  the  com 
bination,  justified  herself  with  a  defiant  apology. 

"I  just  had  to  have  something  —  what  with  winter 
coming  on,"  she  declared,  seizing  the  hand  mirror  in  order 
to  view  the  back.  "You  might  as  well  get  your  clothes 
chick,  while  you're  about  it  —  and  I  didn't  have  to  dig  up 
twenty  bones,  neither  —  nor  anything  like  it  — "  a  re 
flection  on  Janet's  modest  blue  suit  and  her  abnormal  ex 
travagance.  For  it  was  Lise's  habit  to  carry  the  war  into 
the  enemy's  country.  "  Sadie's  dippy  about  it  —  says  it 
puts  her  in  mind  of  one  of  the  swells  snapshotted  in  last 
Sunday's  supplement.  Well,  dearie,  how  does  the  effect 
get  you?"  and  she  wheeled  around  for  her  sister's  inspection. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,  you'll  be  careful  not  to  be  caught 
out  in  the  rain." 

"What's  chewin'  you  now?"  demanded  Lise.  She  was 
not  lacking  m  imagination  of  a  certain  sort,  and  Janet's  re 
mark  did  not  fail  in  its  purpose  of  summoning  up  a  some 
what  abject  image  of  herself  in  wet  velvet  and  bedraggled 
feathers  —  an  image  suggestive  of  a  certain  hunted  type  of 
woman  Lise  and  her  kind  held  in  peculiar  horror.  And 
she  was  the  more  resentful  because  she  felt,  instinctively, 
that  the  memory  of  this  suggestion  would  never  be  completely 
eradicated :  it  would  persist,  like  a  canker,  to  mar  the  com 
pleteness  of  her  enjoyment  of  these  clothes.  She  swung  on 
Janet  furiously. 

"I  get  you,  all  right !"  she  cried.  "I  guess  I  know  what's 
eatin'  you !  You've  got  money  to  burn  and  you're  sore 
because  I  spend  mine  to  buy  what  I  need.  You  don't  know 
how  to  dress  yourself  any  more  than  one  of  them  Polak  girls  in 
the  mills,  and  you  don't  want  anybody  else  to  look  nice." 


174  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

And  Janet  was  impelled  to  make  a  retort  of  almost  equal 
crudity :  — 

"  If  I  were  a  man  and  saw  you  in  those  clothes  I  wouldn't 
wait  for  an  introduction.  You  asked  me  what  I  thought. 
I  don't  care  about  the  money  I"  she  exclaimed  passionately. 
"I've  often  told  you  you  were  pretty  enough  without  hav 
ing  to  wear  that  kind  of  thing  —  to  make  men  stare  at 
you." 

"  I  want  to  know  if  I  don't  always  look  like  a  lady  !  And 
there's  no  man  living  would  try  to  pick  me  up  more  than 
once."  The  nasal  note  in  Lise's  voice  had  grown  higher 
and  shriller,  she  was  almost  weeping  with  anger.  "You 
want  me  to  go  'round  lookin'  like  a  floorwasher." 

"  I'd  rather  look  like  a  floorwasher  than  —  than  another 
kind  of  woman,"  Janet  declared. 

"Well,  you've  got  your  wish,  sweetheart,"  said  Lise. 
"You  needn't  be  scared  anybody  will  pick  you  up." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Janet.  .  .  . 

This  quarrel  had  taken  place  a  week  or  so  before  Janet's 
purchase  of  the  stove.  Hannah,  too,  was  outraged  by  Lise's 
costume,  and  had  also  been  moved  to  protest;  futile  pro 
test.  Its  only  effect  on  Lise  was  to  convince  her  of  the 
existence  of  a  prearranged  plan  of  persecution,  to  make 
her  more  secretive  and  sullen  than  ever  before. 

"Sometimes  I  just  can't  believe  she's  my  daughter," 
Hannah  said  dejectedly  to  Janet  when  they  were  alone  to 
gether  in  the  kitchen  after  Lise  had  gone  out.  "I'm  fond 
of  her  because  she's  my  own  flesh  and  blood  —  I'm  ashamed 
of  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  guess  it's  what  the  minister 
in  Dolton  used  to  call  a  visitation.  I  suppose  I  deserve 
it,  but  sometimes  I  think  maybe  if  your  father  had  b'en 
different  he  might  have  b'en  able  to  put  a  stop  to  the  way 
she's  going  on.  She  ain't  like  any  of  the  Wenches,  nor  any 
of  the  Bumpuses,  so  far's  I'm  able  to  find  out.  She  just 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  175 

don't  seem  to  have  any  notion  about  right  and  wrong. 
Well,  the  world  has  got  all  jumbled  up  —  it  beats  me." 

Hannah  wrung  out  the  mop  viciously  and  hung  it  over 
the  sink. 

"I  used  to  hope  some  respectable  man  would  come  along, 
but  I've  quit  hopin'.  I  don't  know  as  any  respectable  man 
would  want  Lise,  or  that  I  could  honestly  wish  him  to  have 
her." 

"Mother!"  protested  Janet.  Sometimes,  in  those  con 
versations,  she  was  somewhat  paradoxically  impelled  to 
defend  her  sister. 

"Well,  I  don't,"  insisted  Hannah,  "that's  a  fact.  I'll 
tell  you  what  she  looks  like  in  that  hat  and  cloak  —  a  bad 
woman.  I  don't  say  she  is  —  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  if 
I  thought  she  was,  but  I  never  expected  my  daughter  to 
look  like  one." 

"Oh,  Lise  can  take  care  of  herself,"  Janet  said,  in  spite 
of  certain  recent  misgivings. 

"This  town's  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  rolled  into  one," 
declared  Hannah  who,  from  early  habit,  was  occasionally 
prone  to  use  scriptural  parallels.  And  after  a  moment's 
silence  she  inquired :  "  Who's  this  man  that's  payin'  her 
attention  nowr?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Janet,  "I  don't  know  that  there's 
anybody." 

"I  guess  there  is,"  said  Hannah.  "I  used  to  think  that 
that  Wiley  was  low  enough,  but  I  could  see  him.  It  was 
some  satisfaction.  I  could  know  the  worst,  anyhow.  .  .  . 
I  guess  it's  about  time  for  another  flood." 

This  talk  had  left  Janet  in  one  of  these  introspective 
states  so  frequent  in  her  recent  experience.  Her  mother 
had  used  the  words  "right"  and  "wrong."  But  what  was 
"right,"  or  "wrong?"  There  was  no  use  asking  Hannah, 
who  —  she  perceived  —  was  as  confused  and  bewildered  as 


176  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

herself.  Did  she  refuse  to  encourage  Mr.  Ditmar  because 
it  was  wrong?  because,  if  she  acceded  to  his  desires,  and 
what  were  often  her  own,  she  would  be  punished  in  an  after 
life?  She  was  not  at  all  sure  whether  she  believed  in  an 
after  life,  —  a  lack  of  faith  that  had,  of  late,  sorely  troubled 
her  friend  Eda  Rawle,  who  had  "got  religion"  from  an  itiner 
ant  evangelist  and  was  now  working  off,  in  a  "live"  church, 
some  of  the  emotional  idealism  which  is  the  result  of  a 
balked  sex  instinct  in  young  unmarried  women  of  a  certain 
mentality  and  unendowed  with  good  looks.  This  was  not, 
of  course,  Janet's  explanation  of  the  change  in  her  friend,  of 
whom  she  now  saw  less  and  less.  They  had  had  arguments, 
in  which  neither  gained  any  ground.  For  the  first  time  in 
their  intercourse,  ideas  had  come  between  them,  Eda 
having  developed  a  surprising  self-assertion  when  her  new 
convictions  were  attacked,  a  dogged  loyalty  to  a  scheme  of 
salvation  that  Janet  found  neither  inspiring  nor  convincing. 
She  resented  being  prayed  for,  and  an  Eda  fervent  in  good 
works  bored  her  more  than  ever.  Eda  was  deeply  pained 
by  Janet's  increasing  avoidance  of  her  company,  yet  her 
heroine-worship  persisted.  Her  continued  regard  for  her 
friend  might  possibly  be  compared  to  the  attitude  of  an 
orthodox  Baptist  who  has  developed  a  hobby,  let  us  say, 
for  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

Janet  was  not  wholly  without  remorse.  She  valued  Eda's 
devotion,  she  sincerely  regretted  the  fact,  on  Eda's  account 
as  well  as  her  own,  that  it  was  a  devotion  of  no  use  to  her 
in  the  present  crisis  —  nor  indeed  in  any  crisis  likely  to 
confront  her  in  life :  she  had  felt  instinctively  from  the  first 
that  the  friendship  was  not  founded  on  mental  harmony, 
and  now  it  was  brought  home  to  her  that  Eda's  solution 
could  never  be  hers.  Eda  would  have  been  thrilled  on  learn 
ing  of  Ditmar's  attentions,  would  have  advocated  the  adop 
tion  of  a  campaign  leading  up  to  matrimony.  In  matrimony, 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  177 

for  Eda,  the  soul  was  safe.  Eda  would  have  been  horrified 
that  Janet  should  have  dallied  with  any  other  relationship ; 
God  would  punish  her.  Janet,  in  her  conflict  between 
alternate  longing  and  repugnance,  was  not  concerned  with 
the  laws  and  retributions  of  God.  She  felt,  indeed,  the  need 
of  counsel,  and  knew  not  where  to  turn  for  it,  —  the  modern 
need  for  other  than  supernatural  sanctions.  She  did  not 
resist  her  desire  for  Ditmar  because  she  believed,  in  the 
orthodox  sense,  that  it  was  wrong,  but  because  it  involved 
a  loss  of  self-respect,  a  surrender  of  the  personality  from  the 
very  contemplation  of  which  she  shrank.  She  was  a  true 
daughter  of  her  time. 

3 

On  Friday  afternoon,  shortly  after  Ditmar  had  begun  to 
dictate  his  correspondence,  Mr.  Holster,  the  agent  of  the 
Clarendon  Mill,  arrived  and  interrupted  him.  Janet  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  file  away  some  an 
swered  letters  when  her  attention  was  distracted  from  her 
work  by  the  conversation,  which  had  gradually  grown  louder. 
The  two  men  were  standing  by  the  window,  facing  one 
another,  in  an  attitude  that  struck  her  as  dramatic.  Both 
were  vital  figures,  dominant  types  which  had  survived  and 
prevailed  in  that  upper  world  of  unrelenting  struggle  for 
supremacy  into  which,  through  her  relation  to  Ditmar,  she 
had  been  projected,  and  the  significance  of  which  she  had 
now  begun  to  realize.  She  surveyed  Holster  critically.  He 
was  short,  heavily  built,  with  an  almost  grotesque  width 
of  shoulder,  a  muddy  complexion,  thick  lips,  and  kinky, 
greasy  black  hair  that  glistened  in  the  sun.  His  nasal 
voice  was  complaining,  yet  distinctly  aggressive,  and  he 
emphasized  his  words  by  gestures.  The  veins  stood  out  on 
his  forehead.  She  wondered  what  his  history  had  been. 
She  compared  him  to  Ditmar,  on  whose  dust-grey  face  she 
was  quick  to  detect  a  look  she  had  seen  before  —  a  con- 


178  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

traction  of  the  eyes,  a  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  the  jaw. 
That  look,  and  the  peculiarly  set  attitude  of  the  body  ac 
companying  it,  aroused  in  her  a  responsive  sense  of  cham 
pionship. 

"All  right,  Ditmar,"  she  heard  the  other  exclaim.  ''I 
tell  you  again  you'll  never  be  able  to  pull  it  off." 

Ditmar's  laugh  was  short,  defiant. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Why  not!  Because  the  fifty-four  hour  law  goes  into 
effect  in  January." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  Ditmar  demanded. 

"  You'll  see  —  you'll  remember  what  I  told  you  fellows 
at  the  conference  after  that  bill  went  through  and  that 
damned  demagogue  of  a  governor  insisted  on  signing  it.  I 
said,  if  we  tried  to  cut  wages  down  to  a  fifty-four  hour  basis 
we'd  have  a  strike  on  our  hands  in  every  mill  in  Hampton, 
—  didn't  I?  I  said  it  would  cost  us  millions  of  dollars, 
and  make  all  the  other  strikes  we've  had  here  look  like 
fifty  cents.  Didn't  I  say  that?  Hammond,  our  president, 
backed  me  up,  and  Rogers  of  the  wool  people.  You  re 
member?  You  were  the  man  who  stood  out  against  it, 
and  they  listened  to  you,  they  voted  to  cut  down  the  pay 
and  say  nothing  about  it.  Wait  until  those  first  pay  en 
velopes  are  opened  after  that  law  goes  into  effect.  You'll 
see  what'll  happen !  You'll  never  be  able  to  fill  that  Brad- 
laugh  order  in  God's  world." 

"Oh  hell,"  retorted  Ditmar,  contemptuously.  "You're 
always  for  lying  down,  Holster.  Why  don't  you  hand  over 
your  mill  to  the  unions  and  go  to  work  on  a  farm?  You 
might  as  well,  if  you're  going  to  let  the  unions  run  the  state. 
Why  not  have  socialism  right  now,  and  cut  out  the  agony  ? 
When  they  got  the  politicians  to  make  the  last  cut 
from  fifty-six  to  fifty-four  and  we  kept  on  payin'  'em  for 
fifty-six,  against  my  advice,  what  happened?  Did  they 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  179 

thank  us?  I  guess  not.  Were  they  contented?  Not  on 
your  life.  They  went  right  on  agitating,  throwing  scares 
into  the  party  conventions  and  into  the  House  and  Senate 
Committees,  —  and  now  it's  fifty-four  hours.  It'll  be  fifty 
in  a  couple  of  years,  and  then  we'll  have  to  scrap  our  machin 
ery  and  turn  over  the  trade  to  the  South  and  donate  our 
mills  to  the  state  for  insane  asylums." 

"No,  if  we  handle  this  thing  right,  we'll  have  the  public 
on  our  side.  They're  getting  sick  of  the  unions  now." 

Ditmar  went  to  the  desk  for  a  cigar,  bit  it  off,  and  lighted 
it. 

"The  public!"  he  exclaimed  contemptuously.  "A  whole 
lot  of  good  they'll  do  us." 

Holster  approached  him,  menacingly,  until  the  two 
men  stood  almost  touching,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
Janet  as  if  the  agent  of  the  Clarendon  were  ready  to  strike 
Ditmar.  She  held  her  breath,  her  blood  ran  faster,  —  the 
conflict  between  these  two  made  an  elemental  appeal. 

"  All  right  —  remember  what  I  say  —  wait  and  see  where 
you  come  out  with  that  order."  Holster's  voice  trembled 
with  anger.  He  hesitated,  and  left  the  office  abruptly. 
Ditmar  stood  gazing  after  him  for  a  moment  and  then, 
taking  his  cigar  from  his  mouth,  turned  and  smiled  at  Janet 
and  seated  himself  in  his  chair.  His  eyes,  still  narrowed, 
had  in  them  a  gleam  of  triumph  that  thrilled  her.  Combat 
seemed  to  stimulate  and  energize  him. 

"He  thought  he  could  bluff  me  into  splitting  that  Brad- 
laugh  order  with  the  Clarendon,"  Ditmar  exclaimed.  "  Well, 
he'll  have  to  guess  again.  I've  got  his  number."  He 
began  to  turn  over  his  letters.  "Let's  see,  where  were  we? 
Tell  C  aid  well  not  to  let  in  any  more  idiots,  and  shut  the 
door." 

Janet  obeyed,  and  when  she  returned  Ditmar  was  making 
notes  with  a  pencil  on  a  pad.  The  conversation  with  Hoi- 


180  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

ster  had  given  her  a  new  idea  of  Ditmar's  daring  in  attempt 
ing  to  fill  the  Bradlaugh  order  with  the  Chippering  Mills 
alone,  had  aroused  in  her  more  strongly  than  ever  that  hot 
loyalty  to  the  mills  with  which  he  had  inspired  her;  and 
that  strange  surge  of  sympathy,  of  fellow-feeling  for  the 
operatives  she  had  experienced  after  the  interview  with  Mr. 
Siddons,  of  rebellion  against  him,  the  conviction  that  she 
also  was  one  of  the  slaves  he  exploited,  had  wholly  disap 
peared.  Ditmar  was  the  Chippering  Mills,  and  she,  some 
how,  enlisted  once  again  on  his  side. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said  abruptly,  "you  won't  mention 
this  —  I  know." 

"Won't  mention  what?"  she  asked. 

"This  matter  about  the  pay  envelopes  —  that  we  don't 
intend  to  continue  giving  the  operatives  fifty-six  hours' 
pay  for  fifty-four  when  this  law  goes  into  effect.  They're 
like  animals,  most  of  'em,  they  don't  reason,  and  it  might 
make  trouble  if  it  got  out  now.  You  understand.  They'd 
have  time  to  brood  over  it,  to  get  the  agitators  started. 
When  the  time  comes  they  may  kick  a  little,  but  they'll 
quiet  down.  And  it'll  teach  'em  a  lesson." 

"I  never  mention  anything  I  hear  in  this  office,"  she  told 
him. 

"I  know  you  don't,"  he  assured  her,  apologetically.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  said  that  —  it  was  only  to  put  you  on  your 
guard,  in  case  you  heard  it  spoken  of.  You  see  how  im 
portant  it  is,  how  much  trouble  an  agitator  might  make 
by  getting  them  stirred  up  ?  You  can  see  what  it  means  to 
me,  with  this  order  on  my  hands.  I've  staked  everything 
on  it." 

"  But  —  when  the  law  goes  into  effect  ?  when  the  oper 
atives  find  out  that  they  are  not  receiving  their  full  wages 
—  as  Mr.  Holster  said?"  Janet  inquired. 

"Why,  they  may  grumble  a  little  —  but  I'll  be  on  the 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  181 

lookout  for  any  move.  I'll  see  to  that.  I'll  teach  'em 
a  lesson  as  to  how  far  they  can  push  this  business  of  shorter 
hours  and  equal  pay.  It's  the  unskilled  workers  who  are 
mostly  affected,  you  understand,  and  theyVe  not  organized. 
If  we  can  keep  out  the  agitators,  we're  all  right.  Even 
then,  I'll  show  'em  they  can't  come  in  here  and  exploit  my 
operatives." 

In  the  mood  in  which  she  found  herself  his  self-confidence, 
his  aggressiveness  continued  to  inspire  and  even  to  agitate 
her,  to  compel  her  to  accept  his  point  of  view. 

"Why,"  he  continued,  "I  trust  you  as  I  never  trusted 
anybody  else.  I've  told  you  that  before.  Ever  since  you've 
been  here  you've  made  life  a  different  thing  for  me  —  just 
by  your  being  here.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  without  you. 
You've  got  so  much  sense  about  things  —  about  people, 
—  and  I  sometimes  think  you've  got  almost  the  same  feeling 
about  these  mills  that  I  have.  You  didn't  tell  me  you 
went  through  the  mills  with  Caldwell  the  other  day,"  he 
added,  accusingly. 

"I  — I  forgot/'  said  Janet.  "Why  should  I  tell  you?" 
She  knew  that  all  thought  of  Holster  had  already  slipped 
from  his  mind.  She  did  not  look  up.  "  If  you're  not  going 
to  finish  your  letters,"  she  said,  a  little  faintly,  "I've  got 
some  copying  to  do." 

"You're  a  deep  one,"  he  said.  And  as  he  turned  to  the 
pile  of  correspondence  she  heard  him  sigh.  He  began  to 
dictate.  She  took  down  his  sentences  automatically,  scarcely 
knowing  what  she  was  writing ;  he  was  making  love  to  her 
as  intensely  as  though  his  words  had  been  the  absolute  ex 
pression  of  his  desire  instead  of  the  commonplace  mediums 
of  commercial  intercourse.  Presently  he  stopped  and 
began  fumbling  in  one  of  the  drawers  of  his  desk. 

"Where  is  the  memorandum  I  made  last  week  for  Percy 
and  Company?" 


182  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Isn't  it  there?"  she  asked. 

But  he  continued  to  fumble,  running  through  the  papers 
and  disarranging  them  until  she  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"You  never  know  where  to  find  anything,"  she  declared, 
rising  and  darting  around  the  desk  and  bending  over  the 
drawer,  her  deft  fingers  rapidly  separating  the  papers. 
She  drew  forth  the  memorandum  triumphantly. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  was  right  before  your 
eyes." 

As  she  thrust  it  at  him  his  hand  closed  over  hers.  She 
felt  him  drawing  her,  irresistibly. 

"Janet!"  he  said.  "For  God's  sake  —  you're  killing 
me  —  don't  you  know  it?  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer  !" 

"  Don't ! "  she  whispered,  terror-stricken,  straining  away 
from  him.  "Mr.  Ditmar  —  let  me  go  !" 

A  silent  struggle  ensued,  she  resisting  him  with  all  the 
aroused  strength  and  fierceness  of  her  nature.  He  kissed 
her  hair,  her  neck,  —  she  had  never  imagined  such  a  force 
as  this,  she  felt  herself  weakening,  welcoming  the  annihila 
tion  of  his  embrace. 

"Mr.  Ditmar!"  she  cried.     "Somebody  will  come  in." 

Her  fingers  sank  into  his  neck,  she  tried  to  hurt  him  — 
and  by  a  final  effort  flung  herself  free  and  fled  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room. 

"You  little  —  wildcat!"  she  heard  him  exclaim,  saw 
him  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  neck  where  her  fingers  had 
been,  saw  a  red  stain  on  it.  "  I'll  have  you  yet ! " 

But  even  then,  as  she  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
motionless  save  for  the  surging  of  her  breast,  there  was 
about  her  the  same  strange,  feral  inscrutableness.  He 
was  baffled,  he  could  not  tell  what  she  was  thinking.  She 
seemed,  unconquered,  to  triumph  over  her  disarray  and  the 
agitation  of  her  body.  Then,  with  an  involuntary  gesture 
she  raised  her  hands  to  her  hair,  smoothing  it,  and  without 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  183 

seeming  haste  left  the  room,  not  so  much  as  glancing  at 
him,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

She  reached  her  table  in  the  outer  office  and  sat  down, 
gazing  out  of  the  window.  The  face  of  the  world  —  the 
river,  the  mills,  and  the  bridge  —  was  changed,  tinged  with  a 
new  and  unreal  quality.  She,  too,  must  be  changed.  She 
wasn't,  couldn't  be  the  same  person  who  had  entered  that 
room  of  Ditmar's  earlier  in  the  afternoon !  Mr.  Caldwell 
made  a  commonplace  remark,  she  heard  herself  answer 
him.  Her  mind  was  numb,  only  her  body  seemed  swept  by 
fire,  by  emotions  —  emotions  of  fear,  of  anger,  of  desire  — 
so  intense  as  to  make  her  helpless.  And  when  at  length 
she  reached  out  for  a  sheet  of  carbon  paper  her  hand  trembled 
so  she  could  scarcely  hold  it.  Only  by  degrees  was  she  able 
to  get  sufficient  control  of  herself  to  begin  her  copying, 
when  she  found  a  certain  relief  in  action  —  her  hands  flying 
over  the  keys,  tearing  off  the  finished  sheets,  and  replacing 
them  with  others.  She  did  not  want  to  think,  to  decide, 
and  yet  she  knew  —  something  was  trying  to  tell  her  — 
that  the  moment  for  decision  had  come.  She  must  leave, 
now.  If  she  stayed  on,  this  tremendous  adventure  she 
longed  for  and  dreaded  was  inevitable.  Fear  and  fascination 
battled  within  her.  To  run  away  was  to  deny  life ;  to  remain, 
to  taste  and  savour  it.  She  had  tasted  it  —  was  it  sweet  ? 
—  that  sense  of  being  swept  away,  engulfed  by  an  elemental 
power  beyond  them  both,  yet  in  them  both  ?  She  felt  him 
drawing  her  to  him,  and  she  struggling  yet  inwardly  longing 
to  yield.  And  the  scarlet  stain  on  his  handkerchief  —  when 
she  thought  of  that  her  blood  throbbed,  her  face  burned. 

At  last  the  door  of  the  inner  office  opened,  and  Ditmar 
came  out  and  stood  by  the  rail.  His  voice  was  queer,  — 
scarcely  recognizable. 

"  Miss  Bumpus  —  would  you  mind  coming  into  my  room  a 
moment,  before  you  leave?"  he  said. 


184  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

She  rose  instantly  and  followed  him,  closing  the  door 
behind  her,  but  standing  at  bay  against  it,  her  hand  on  the 
knob. 

"I'm  not  going  to  touch  you  —  you  needn't  be  afraid," 
he  said.  Reassured  by  the  unsteadiness  of  his  voice  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  perceive  that  his  face  was  ashy,  his  manner 
nervous,  apprehensive,  conciliatory,  —  a  Ditmar  she  had 
difficulty  in  recognizing.  "I  didn't  mean  to  frighten,  to 
offend  you,"  he  went  on.  "Something  got  hold  of  me.  I 
was  crazy,  I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  won't  do  it  again,  if  you'll 
stay.  I  give  you  my  word." 

She  did  not  reply.  After  a  pause  he  began  again,  repeat 
ing  himself. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it.  I  was  carried  away  —  it  all 
happened  before  I  knew.  I  —  I  wouldn't  frighten  you  that 
way  for  anything  in  the  world." 

Still  she  was  silent. 

"For  God's  sake,  speak  to  me!"  he  cried.  "Say  you 
forgive  me  —  give  me  another  chance !" 

But  she  continued  to  gaze  at  him  with  widened,  enig 
matic  eyes  —  whether  of  reproach  or  contempt  or  anger  he 
could  not  say.  The  situation  transcended  his  experience. 
He  took  an  uncertain  step  toward  her,  as  though  half  expect 
ing  her  to  flee,  and  stopped. 

"  Listen ! "  he  pleaded.  "  I  can't  talk  to  you  here.  Won't 
you  give  me  a  chance  to  explain  —  to  put  myself  right  ? 
You  know  what  I  think  of  you,  how  I  respect  and  —  admire 
you.  If  you'll  only  let  me  see  you  somewhere  —  anywhere, 
outside  of  the  office,  for  a  little  while,  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I'd  appreciate  it.  I'm  sure  you  don't  understand 
how  I  feel  —  I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  you.  I'll  be  down  by 
the  canal  —  near  the  bridge  —  at  eight  o'clock  to-night. 
I'll  wait  for  you.  You'll  come  ?  Say  you'll  come,  and  give 
me  another  chance!" 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  185 

"Aren't  you  going  to  finish  your  letters?"  she  asked. 

He  stared  at  her  in  sheer  perplexity.  "Letters!"  he 
exclaimed.  "  Damn  the  letters  I  Do  you  think  I  could 
write  any  letters  now?" 

As  a  faint  ray  in  dark  waters,  a  gleam  seemed  to  dance 
in  the  shadows  of  her  eyes,  yet  was  gone  so  swiftly  that  he 
could  not  be  sure  of  having  seen  it.  Had  she  smiled  ? 

"  I'll  be  there,"  he  cried.     "  I'll  wait  for  you ! " 

She  turned  from  him,  opened  the  door,  and  went  out. 


That  evening,  as  Janet  was  wiping  the  dishes  handed 
her  by  her  mother,  she  was  repeating  to  herself  "Shall  I 
go  —  or  shan't  I?" — just  as  if  the  matter  were  in  doubt. 
But  in  her  heart  she  was  convinced  of  its  predetermination 
by  some  power  other  than  her  own  volition.  With  this 
feeling,  that  she  really  had  no  choice,  that  she  was  being 
guided  and  impelled,  she  went  to  her  bedroom  after  finishing 
her  task.  The  hands  of  the  old  dining-room  clock  pointed 
to  quarter  of  eight,  and  Lise  had  already  made  her  toilet 
and  departed.  Janet  opened  the  wardrobe,  looked  at  the 
new  blue  suit  hanging  so  neatly  on  its  wire  holder,  hesitated, 
and  closed  the  door  again.  Here,  at  any  rate,  seemed  a 
choice.  She  would  not  wear  that,  to-night.  She  tidied  her 
hair,  put  on  her  hat  and  coat,  and  went  out;  but  once  in 
the  street  she  did  not  hurry,  though  she  knew  the  calmness 
she  apparently  experienced  to  be  false:  the  calmness  of 
fatality,  because  she  was  obeying  a  complicated  impulse 
stronger  than  herself  —  an  impulse  that  at  times  seemed 
mere  curiosity.  Somewhere,  removed  from  her  immediate 
consciousness,  a  storm  was  raging ;  she  was  aware  of  a  dis 
turbance  that  reached  her  faintly,  like  the  distant  throbbing 
of  the  looms  she  heard  when  she  turned  from  Faber  into  West 
Street.  She  had  not  been  able  to  eat  any  supper.  That 


186  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

throbbing  of  the  looms  in  the  night !  As  it  grew  louder 
and  louder  the  tension  within  her  increased,  broke  its  bounds, 
set  her  heart  to  throbbing  too  —  throbbing  wildly.  She 
halted,  and  went  on  again,  precipitately,  but  once  more 
slowed  her  steps  as  she  came  to  West  Street  and  the  glare 
of  light  at  the  end  of  the  bridge ;  at  a  little  distance,  under 
the  chequered  shadows  of  the  bare  branches,  she  saw  some 
thing  move  —  a  man,  Ditmar.  She  stood  motionless  as 
he  hurried  toward  her. 

"You've  come!    You've  forgiven  me?"  he  asked. 

"Why  were  you  —  down  there?"  she  asked. 

"Why?  Because  I  thought  —  I  thought  you  wouldn't 
want  anybody  to  know — " 

It  was  quite  natural  that  he  should  not  wish  to  be  seen; 
although  she  had  no  feeling  of  guilt,  she  herself  did  not 
wish  their  meeting  known.  She  resented  the  subterfuge 
in  him,  but  she  made  no  comment  because  his  perplexity, 
his  embarrassment  were  gratifying  to  her  resentment,  were 
restoring  her  self-possession,  giving  her  a  sense  of  power. 

"We  can't  stay  here,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment. 
"Let's  take  a  little  walk  —  I've  got  a  lot  to  say  to  you.  I 
want  to  put  myself  right."  He  tried  to  take  her  arm,  but 
she  avoided  him.  They  started  along  the  canal  in  the 
direction  of  the  Stanley  Street  bridge.  "Don't  you  care 
for  me  a  little?"  he  demanded. 

"Why  should  I?"  she  parried. 

"Then  —  why  did  you  come?" 

"To  hear  what  you  had  to  say." 

"You  mean  —  about  this  afternoon?" 

"Partly,"  said  Janet. 

"Well  —  we'll  talk  it  all  over.  I  wanted  to  explain  about 
this  afternoon,  especially.  I'm  sorry — " 

"Sorry!"  she  exclaimed. 

The   vehemence   of  her   rebuke  —  for   he   recognized   it 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  187 

as  such  —  took  him  completely  aback.  Thus  she  was  wont, 
at  the  most  unexpected  moments,  to  betray  the  passion 
within  her,  the  passion  that  made  him  sick  with  desire. 
How  was  he  to  conquer  a  woman  of  this  type,  who  never 
took  refuge  in  the  conventional  tactics  of  her  sex,  as  he  had 
known  them? 

"I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  explained  desperately.  "My 
God  —  to  feel  you,  to  have  you  in  my  arms  — !  I  was 
sorry  because  I  frightened  you.  But  when  you  came  near 
me  that  way  I  just  couldn't  help  it.  You  drove  me  to  it." 

"Drove  you  to  it!" 

"You  don't  understand,  you  don't  know  how  —  how 
wonderful  you  are.  You  make  me  crazy.  I  love  you,  I 
want  you  as  I've  never  wanted  any  woman  before  —  in  a 
different  way.  I  can't  explain  it.  I've  got  so  that  I  can't 
live  without  you."  He  flung  his  arm  toward  the  lights  of 
the  mills.  "That  —  that  used  to  be  everything  to  me,  I 
lived  for  it.  I  don't  say  I've  been  a  saint  —  but  I  never 
really  cared  anything  about  any  woman  until  I  knew  you, 
until  that  day  I  went  through  the  office  and  saw  you  — 
what  you  were.  You  don't  understand,  I  tell  you.  I'm 
sorry  for  what  I  did  to-day  because  it  offended  you  —  but 
you  drove  me  to  it.  Most  of  the  time  you  seem  cold,  you're 
like  an  iceberg,  you  make  me  think  you  hate  me,  and  then 
all  of  a  sudden  you'll  be  kind,  as  you  were  the  other  night, 
as  you  seemed  this  afternoon  —  you  make  me  think  IVe 
got  a  chance,  and  then,  when  you  came  near  me,  when  you 
touched  my  hand  —  why,  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing. 
I  just  had  to  have  you.  A  man  like  me  can't  stand  it." 

"Then  I'd  better  go  away,"  she  said.  "I  ought  to  have 
gone  long  ago." 

"Why?  "he  cried.  "Why?  What's  your  reason  ?  Why 
do  you  want  to  ruin  my  life?  You've  —  you've  woven 
yourself  into  it  —  you're  a  part  of  it.  I  never  knew  what  it 


188  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

was  to  care  for  a  woman  before,  I  tell  you.  There's  that 
mill/5  he  repeated,  naively.  "I've  made  it  the  best  mill 
in  the  country,  I've  got  the  biggest  order  that  ever  came  to 
any  mill  —  if  you  went  away  I  wouldn't  care  a  continental 
about  it.  If  you  went  away  I  wouldn't  have  any  ambition 
left.  Because  you're  a  part  of  it,  don't  you  see  ?  You  — 
you  sort  of  stand  for  it  now,  in  my  mind.  I'm  not  literary, 
I  can't  express  what  I'd  like  to  say,  but  sometimes  I  used 
to  think  of  that  mill  as  a  woman  —  and  now  you've  come 
along — "  Ditmar  stopped,  for  lack  of  adequate  eloquence. 

She  smiled  in  the  darkness  at  his  boyish  fervour,  —  one 
of  the  aspects  of  the  successful  Ditmar,  the  Ditmar  of  great 
affairs,  that  appealed  to  her  most  strongly.  She  was  softened, 
touched;  she  felt,  too,  a  responsive  thrill  to  such  a  desire 
as  his.  Yet  she  did  not  reply.  She  could  not.  She  was 
learning  that  emotion  is  never  simple.  And  some  inhibition, 
the  identity  of  which  was  temporarily  obscured  still  per 
sisted,  pervading  her  consciousness.  .  .  . 

They  were  crossing  the  bridge  at  Stanley  Street,  now 
deserted,  and  by  common  consent  they  paused  in  the  middle 
of  it,  leaning  on  the  rail.  The  hideous  chocolate  factory 
on  the  point  was  concealed  by  the  night,  —  only  the  lights 
were  there,  trembling  on  the  surface  of  the  river.  Against 
the  flushed  sky  above  the  city  were  silhouetted  the  high 
chimneys  of  the  power  plant.  Ditmar's  shoulder  touched 
hers.  He  was  still  pleading,  but  she  seemed  rather  to 
be  listening  to  the  symphony  of  the  unseen  waters  falling 
over  the  dam.  His  words  were  like  that,  suggestive  of  a 
torrent  into  which  she  longed  to  fling  herself,  yet  refrained, 
without  knowing  why.  Her  hands  tightened  on  the  rail; 
suddenly  she  let  it  go,  and  led  the  way  toward  the  unfre 
quented  district  of  the  south  side.  It  was  the  road  to 
Silliston,  but  she  had  forgotten  that.  Ditmar,  regaining 
her  side,  continued  his  pleading.  He  spoke  of  his  loneliness, 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  189 

which  he  had  never  realized.  He  needed  her.  And  she 
experienced  an  answering  pang.  It  still  seemed  incredible 
that  he,  too,  who  had  so  much,  should  feel  that  gnawing 
need  for  human  sympathy  and  understanding  that  had  so 
often  made  her  unhappy.  And  because  of  the  response 
his  need  aroused  in  her  she  did  not  reflect  whether  he  could 
fulfil  her  own  need,  whether  he  could  ever  understand  her ; 
whether,  at  any  time,  she  could  unreservedly  pour  herself 
out  to  him. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  want  me,"  she  interrupted  him  at 
last.  "I've  never  had  any  advantages,  I  don't  know  any 
thing.  I've  never  had  a  chance  to  learn.  I've  told  you 
that  before." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  You've  got  more 
sense  than  any  woman  I  ever  saw,"  he  declared. 

"It  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  to  me,"  she  insisted 
—  and  the  sound  of  these  words  on  her  own  lips  was  like  a 
summons  arousing  her  from  a  dream.  The  sordidness  of  her 
life,  its  cruel  lack  of  opportunity  in  contrast  with  the  gifts 
she  felt  to  be  hers,  and  on  which  he  had  dwelt,  was  swept  back 
into  her  mind.  Self-pity,  dignity,  and  inherent  self -respect 
struggled  against  her  woman's  desire  to  give;  an  inherited 
racial  pride  whispered  that  she  was  wrorthy  of  the  best,  but 
because  she  had  lacked  the  chance,  he  refrained  from  offering 
her  what  he  would  have  laid  at  the  feet  of  another  woman. 

"  I'll  give  you  advantages  —  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  give 
you.  Why  won't  you  come  to  me  ?  I'll  take  care  of  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  want  to  be  taken  care  of  ?"  She  wheeled 
on  him  so  swiftly  that  he  started  back.  "Is  that  what  you 
think  I  want?" 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  when  he  recovered  his  speech. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  after  —  what  you  can  give  me?"  she 
shot  at  him.  "What  you  can  buy  for  me?" 

To  tell  the  truth,  he  had  not  thought  anything  about  it, 


190  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

that  was  the  trouble.  And  her  question,  instead  of  enlight 
ening  him,  only  added  to  his  confusion  and  bewilderment. 

"I'm  always  getting  in  wrong  with  you/'  he  told  her, 
pathetically.  "There  isn't  anything  I'd  stop  at  to  make 
you  happy,  Janet,  that's  what  I'm  trying  to  say.  I'd  go 
the  limit." 

"  Your  limit!"  she  exclaimed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded.  But  she  had 
become  inarticulate  —  cryptic,  to  him.  He  could  get 
nothing  more  out  of  her. 

"You  don't  understand  me  —  you  never  will!"  she 
cried,  and  burst  into  tears  —  tears  of  rage  she  tried  in  vain 
to  control.  The  world  was  black  with  his  ignorance.  She 
hated  herself,  she  hated  him.  Her  sobs  shook  her  con 
vulsively,  and  she  scarcely  heard  him  as  he  walked  beside 
her  along  the  empty  road,  pleading  and  clumsily  seeking 
to  comfort  her.  Once  or  twice  she  felt  his  hand  on  her 
shoulders.  .  .  .  And  then,  unlocked  for  and  unbidden,  pity 
began  to  invade  her.  Absurd  to  pity  him !  She  fought 
against  it,  but  the  thought  of  Ditmar  reduced  to  abject- 
ness  gained  ground.  After  all,  he  had  tried  to  be  generous, 
he  had  done  his  best,  he  loved  her,  he  needed  her  —  the 
words  rang  in  her  heart.  After  all,  he  did  not  realize  — 
how  could  she  expect  him  to  realize?  and  her  imagination 
conjured  up  the  situation  in  a  new  perspective.  Her  sobs 
gradually  ceased,  and  presently  she  stopped  in  the  middle 
of  the  road  and  regarded  him.  He  seemed  utterly  miserable, 
like  a  hurt  child  whom  she  longed  to  comfort.  But  what 
she  said  was :  — 

"I  ought  to  be  going  home." 

"Not  yet!"  he  begged.  "It's  early.  You  say  I  don't 
understand  you,  Janet  —  my  God,  I  wish  I  did  !  It  breaks 
me  all  up  to  see  you  cry  like  that." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  after  a  moment.     "I  —  I  can't 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  191 

make  you  understand.  I  guess  I'm  not  like  anybody  else  — 
I'm  queer  —  I  can't  help  it.  You  must  let  me  go,  I  only 
make  you  unhappy." 

"Let  you  go  !"  he  cried  —  and  then  in  utter  self-forgetful- 
ness  she  yielded  her  lips  to  his.  A  sound  penetrated  the  night, 
she  drew  back  from  his  arms  and  stood  silhouetted  against 
the  glare  of  the  approaching  headlight  of  a  trolley  car,  and 
as  it  came  roaring  down  on  them  she  hailed  it.  Ditmar 
seized  her  arm. 

"You're  not  going  —  now?"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"I  must,"  she  whispered.  "I  want  to  be  alone  —  I  want 
to  think.  You  must  let  me." 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow?" 

"I  don't  know  —  I  want  to  think.     I'm  —  I'm  tired." 

The  brakes  screamed  as  the  car  came  jokingly  to  a  stop. 
She  flew  up  the  steps,  glancing  around  to  see  whether  Ditmar 
had  followed  her,  and  saw  him  still  standing  in  the  road. 
The  car  was  empty  of  passengers,  but  the  conductor  must 
have  seen  her  leaving  a  man  in  this  lonely  spot.  She  glanced 
at  his  face,  white  and  pinched  and  apathetic  —  he  must 
have  seen  hundreds  of  similar  episodes  in  the  course  of  his 
nightly  duties.  He  was  unmoved  as  he  took  her  fare. 
Nevertheless,  at  the  thought  that  these  other  episodes  might 
resemble  hers,  her  face  flamed  —  she  grew  hot  all  over. 
What  should  she  do  now?  She  could  not  think.  Confused 
with  her  shame  was  the  memory  of  a  delirious  joy,  yet  no 
sooner  would  she  give  herself  up,  trembling,  to  this  memory 
when  in  turn  it  was  penetrated  by  qualms  of  resentment, 
defiling  its  purity.  Was  Ditmar  ashamed  of  her  ?  ...  When 
she  reached  home  and  had  got  into  bed  she  wept  a  little,  but 
her  tears  were  neither  of  joy  nor  sorrow.  Her  capacity  for 
both  was  exhausted.  In  this  strange  mood  she  fell  asleep  — 
nor  did  she  waken  when,  at  midnight,  Lise  stealthily  crept 
in  beside  her. 


CHAPTER  X 


DITMAR  stood  staring  after  the  trolley  car  that  bore 
Janet  away  until  it  became  a  tiny  speck  of  light  in  the 
distance.  Then  he  started  to  walk  toward  Hampton; 
in  the  unwonted  exercise  was  an  outlet  for  the  pent-up 
energy  her  departure  had  thwarted ;  and  presently  his  body 
was  warm  with  a  physical  heat  that  found  its  counterpart 
in  a  delicious,  emotional  glow  of  anticipation,  of  exultant 
satisfaction.  After  all,  he  could  not  expect  to  travel  too 
fast  with  her.  Had  he  not  at  least  gained  a  signal  victory? 
When  he  remembered  her  lips  —  which  she  had  indubitably 
given  him !  —  he  increased  his  stride,  and  in  what  seemed 
an  incredibly  brief  time  he  had  recrossed  the  bridge,  covered 
the  long  residential  blocks  of  Warren  Street,  and  gained  his 
own  door. 

The  house  was  quiet,  the  children  having  gone  to  bed, 
and  he  groped  his  way  through  the  dark  parlour  to  his  den, 
turning  on  the  electric  switch,  sinking  into  an  armchair, 
and  lighting  a  cigar.  He  liked  this  room  of  his,  which  still 
retained  something  of  that  flavour  of  a  refuge  and  sanctuary 
it  had  so  eminently  possessed  in  the  now  forgotten  days  of 
matrimonial  conflict.  One  of  the  few  elements  of  agreement 
he  had  held  in  common  with  the  late  Mrs.  Ditmar  was  a 
similarity  of  taste  in  household  decoration,  and  they  had 
gone  together  to  a  great  emporium  in  Boston  to  choose 
the  furniture  and  fittings.  The  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the 
table  was  a  bronze  column  supporting  a  hemisphere  of 

192 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT  193 

heavy  red  and  emerald  glass,  the  colours  woven  into  an 
intricate  and  bizarre  design,  after  the  manner  of  the  art 
nouveau  —  so  the  zealous  salesman  had  informed  them.  Cora 
Ditmar,  when  exhibiting  this  lamp  to  admiring  visitors, 
had  remembered  the  phrase,  though  her  pronunciation  of  it, 
according  to  the  standard  of  the  Sorbonne,  left  something 
to  be  desired.  The  table  and  chairs,  of  heavy,  shiny  oak 
marvellously  and  precisely  carved  by  machines,  matched 
the  big  panels  of  the  wainscot.  The  windows  were  high 
in  the  wall,  thus  preventing  any  intrusion  from  the  clothes- 
yard  on  which  they  looked.  The  bookcases,  protected  by 
leaded  panes,  held  countless  volumes  of  the  fiction  from  which 
Cora  Ditmar  had  derived  her  knowledge  of  the  great  world 
outside  of  Hampton,  together  with  certain  sets  she  had 
bought,  not  only  as  ornaments,  but  with  a  praiseworthy 
view  to  future  culture,  —  such  as  ^Tiitmarsh's  Library  of 
the  Best  Literature.  These  volumes,  alas,  were  still  uncut; 
but  some  of  the  pages  of  the  novels  —  if  one  cared  to  open 
them  —  were  stained  with  chocolate.  The  steam  radiator 
was  a  decoration  in  itself,  the  fireplace  set  in  the  red  and 
yellow  tiles  that  made  the  hearth.  Above  the  oak  mantel, 
in  a  gold  frame,  was  a  large  coloured  print  of  a  Magdalen, 
doubled  up  in  grief,  with  a  glory  of  loose,  Titian  hair,  chosen 
by  Ditmar  himself  as  expressing  the  nearest  possible  artistic 
representation  of  his  ideal  of  the  female  form.  Cora  Ditmar's 
objections  on  the  score  of  voluptuousness  and  of  insufficient 
clothing  had  been  vain.  She  had  recognized  no  immorality 
of  sentimentality  in  the  art  itself;  what  she  felt,  and  with 
some  justice,  was  that  this  particular  Magdalen  was  unre 
pentant,  and  that  Ditmar  knew  it.  And  the  picture  re 
mained  an  offence  to  her  as  long  as  she  lived.  Formerly  he 
had  enjoyed  the  contemplation  of  this  figure,  reminding  him, 
as  it  did,  of  mellowed  moments  in  conquests  of  the  past; 
suggesting  also  possibilities  of  the  future.  For  he  had  been 


194  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

quick  to  discount  the  attitude  of  bowed  despair,  the  sop 
flung  by  a  sensuous  artist  to  Christian  orthodoxy.  He  had 
been  sceptical  about  despair  —  feminine  despair,  which 
could  always  be  cured  by  gifts  and  baubles.  But  to-night, 
as  he  raised  his  eyes,  he  felt  a  queer  sensation  marring  the 
ecstatic  perfection  of  his  mood.  That  quality  in  the  picture 
which  so  long  had  satisfied  and  entranced  him  had  now 
become  repellent,  an  ugly  significant  reflection  of  something 
—  something  in  himself  he  was  suddenly  eager  to  repudiate 
and  deny. 

It  was  with  a  certain  amazement  that  he  found  himself 
on  his  feet  with  the  picture  in  his  hand,  gazing  at  the  empty 
space  where  it  had  hung.  For  he  had  had  no  apparent 
intention  of  obeying  that  impulse.  What  should  he  do 
with  it  ?  Light  the  fire  and  burn  it  —  frame  and  all  ?  The 
frame  was  an  integral  part  of  it.  What  would  his  house 
keeper  say  ?  But  now  that  he  had  actually  removed  it  from 
the  wall  he  could  not  replace  it,  so  he  opened  the  closet 
door  and  thrust  it  into  a  corner  among  relics  which  had 
found  refuge  there.  He  had  put  his  past  in  the  closet; 
yet  the  relief  he  felt  was  mingled  with  the  peculiar  qualm 
that  follows  the  discovery  of  symptoms  never  before  re 
marked.  Why  should  this  woman  have  this  extraordinary 
effect  of  making  him  dissatisfied  with  himself?  He  sat 
down  again  and  tried  to  review  the  affair  from  that  first  day 
when  he  had  surprised  in  her  eyes  the  flame  dwelling  in  her. 
She  had  completely  upset  his  life,  increasingly  distracted 
his  mind  until  now  he  could  imagine  no  peace  unless  he 
possessed  her.  Hitherto  he  had  recognized  in  his  feeling 
for  her  nothing  but  that  same  desire  he  had  had  for  other 
women,  intensified  to  a  degree  never  before  experienced. 
But  this  sudden  access  of  morality  —  he  did  not  actually 
define  it  as  such  —  was  disquieting.  And  in  the  feverish, 
semi-objective  survey  he  was  now  making  of  his  emotional 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT  195 

tract  he  was  discovering  the  presence  of  other  disturbing 
symptoms  such  as  an  unwonted  tenderness,  a  consideration 
almost  amounting  to  pity  which  at  times  he  had  vaguely 
sensed  yet  never  sought  imaginatively  to  grasp.  It  be 
wildered  him  by  hampering  a  ruthlessness  hitherto  abso 
lute.  The  fierceness  of  her  inflamed  his  passion,  yet  he 
recognized  dimly  behind  this  fierceness  an  instinct  of  self- 
protection —  and  he  thought  of  her  in  this  moment  as  a 
struggling  bird  that  fluttered  out  of  his  hands  when  they 
were  ready  to  close  over  her.  So  it  had  been  to-night. 
He  might  have  kept  her,  prevented  her  from  taking  the  car. 
Yet  he  had  let  her  go !  There  came  again,  utterly  to  blot 
this  out,  the  memory  of  her  lips. 

Even  then,  there  had  been  something  sorrowful  in  that 
kiss,  a  quality  he  resented  as  troubling,  a  flavour  that  came 
to  him  after  the  wildness  was  spent.  "What  was  she  strug 
gling  against?  What  was  behind  her  resistance?  She 
loved  him !  It  had  never  before  occurred  to  him  to  enter 
into  the  nature  of  her  feelings,  having  been  so  preoccupied 
with  and  tortured  by  his  own.  This  realization,  that  she 
loved  him,  as  it  persisted,  began  to  make  him  uneasy,  though 
it  should,  according  to  all  experience,  have  been  a  reason 
for  sheer  exultation.  He  began  to  see  that  with  her  it  in 
volved  complications,  responsibilities,  disclosures,  perhaps 
all  of  those  things  he  had  formerly  avoided  and  resented 
in  woman.  He  thought  of  certain  friends  of  his  who  had 
become  tangled  up  —  of  one  in  particular  whose  bank  ac 
count  had  been  powerless  to  extricate  him.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself. 

In  view  of  the  nature  of  his  sex  experience,  of  his  habit 
of  applying  his  imagination  solely  to  matters  of  business 
rather  than  to  affairs  of  the  heart,  —  if  his  previous  episodes 
may  be  so  designated,  —  his  failure  to  surmise  that  a  wish  for 
marriage  might  be  at  the  back  of  her  resistance  is  not  so 


196  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

surprising  as  it  may  seem;  he  laid  down,  half  smoked,  his 
third  cigar.  The  suspicion  followed  swiftly  on  his  recalling 
to  mind  her  vehement  repudiation  of  his  proffered  gifts  — 
did  he  think  she  wanted  what  he  could  buy  for  her !  She 
was  not  purchasable  —  that  way.  He  ought  to  have  known 
it,  he  hadn't  realized  what  he  was  saying.  But  marriage ! 
Literally  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  image  her  in  a 
relation  he  himself  associated  with  shackles.  One  of  the 
unconscious  causes  of  his  fascination  was  just  her  emancipa 
tion  from  and  innocence  of  that  herd-convention  to  which 
most  women  —  even  those  who  lack  wedding  rings  —  are 
slaves.  The  force  of  such  an  appeal  to  a  man  of  Ditmar's 
type  must  not  be  underestimated.  And  the  idea  that  she, 
too,  might  prefer  the  sanction  of  the  law,  the  gilded  cage  — 
as  a  popular  song  which  once  had  taken  his  fancy  illuminat- 
ingly  expressed  it  —  seemed  utterly  incongruous  with  the 
freedom  and  daring  of  her  spirit,  was  a  sobering  shock. 
Was  he  prepared  to  marry  her,  if  he  could  obtain  her  in 
no  other  way?  The  question  demanded  a  survey  of  his 
actual  position  of  which  he  was  at  the  moment  incapable. 
There  were  his  children!  He  had  never  sought  to  arrive 
at  even  an  approximate  estimate  of  the  boy  and  girl  as 
factors  in  his  life,  to  consider  his  feelings  toward  them; 
but  now,  though  he  believed  himself  a  man  who  gave  no 
weight  to  social  considerations  —  he  had  scorned  this  ten 
dency  in  his  wife  —  he  was  to  realize  the  presence  of  am 
bitions  for  them.  He  was  young,  he  was  astonishingly 
successful;  he  had  reason  to  think,  with  his  opportunities 
and  the  investments  he  already  had  made,  that  he  might 
some  day  be  moderately  rich;  and  he  had  at  times  even 
imagined  himself  in  later  life  as  the  possessor  of  one  of  those 
elaborate  country  places  to  be  glimpsed  from  the  high 
roads  in  certain  localities,  which  the  sophisticated  are  able 
to  recognize  as  the  seats  of  the  socially  ineligible,  but  which 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  197 

to  Ditmar  were  outward  and  visible  emblems  of  success. 
He  liked  to  think  of  George  as  the  inheritor  of  such  a  place, 
as  the  son  of  a  millionaire,  as  a  "college  graduate,"  as  an 
influential  man  of  affairs;  he  liked  to  imagine  Amy  as  the 
wife  of  such  another.  In  short,  Ditmar's  wife  had  left 
him,  as  an  unconscious  legacy,  her  aspirations  for  their 
children's  social  prestige.  .  .  . 

The  polished  oak  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  had  struck 
one  before  he  went  to  bed,  mentally  wearied  by  an  unwonted 
problem  involving,  in  addition  to  self-interest,  an  element 
of  ethics,  of  affection  not  wholly  compounded  of  desire. 


He  slept  soundly,  however.  He  was  one  of  those  for 
tunate  beings  who  come  into  the  world  with  digestive  organs 
and  thyroid  glands  in  that  condition  which  —  so  physiolo 
gists  tell  us  —  makes  for  a  sanguine  temperament.  And 
his  course  of  action,  though  not  decided  upon,  no  longer 
appeared  as  a  problem;  it  differed  from  a  business  matter 
in  that  it  could  wait.  As  sufficient  proof  of  his  liver  having 
rescued  him  from  doubts  and  qualms  he  was  able  to  whistle, 
as  he  dressed,  and  without  a  tremor  of  agitation,  the  for 
gotten  tune  suggested  to  his  consciousness  during  the  un 
pleasant  reverie  of  the  night  before,  —  "Only  a  Bird  in  a 
Gilded  Cage!"  It  was  Saturday.  He  ate  a  hearty  break 
fast,  joked  with  George  and  Amy,  and  refreshed,  glowing 
with  an  expectation  mingled  with  just  the  right  amount  of 
delightful  uncertainty  that  made  the  great  affairs  of  life  a 
gamble,  yet  with  the  confidence  of  the  conqueror,  he  walked 
in  sunlight  to  the  mill.  In  view  of  this  firm  and  hopeful 
tone  of  his  being  he  found  it  all  the  more  surprising,  as  he 
reached  the  canal,  to  be  seized  by  a  trepidation  strong 
enough  to  bring  perspiration  to  his  forehead.  What  if 
she  had  gone !  He  had  never  thought  of  that,  and  he  had 


198  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  admit  it  would  be  just  like  her.  You  never  could  tell 
what  she  would  do. 

Nodding  at  Simmons,  the  watchman,  he  hurried  up  the 
iron-shod  stairs,  gained  the  outer  office,  and  instantly  per 
ceived  that  her  chair  beside  the  window  was  empty !  Cald- 
well  and  Mr.  Price  stood  with  their  heads  together  bending 
over  a  sheet  on  which  Mr.  Price  was  making  calculations. 

"Hasn't  Miss  Bumpus  come  yet?"  Ditmar  demanded. 
He  tried  to  speak  naturally,  casually,  but  his  own  voice 
sounded  strange,  seemed  to  strike  the  exact  note  of  sickening 
apprehension  that  suddenly  possessed  him.  Both  men 
turned  and  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Ditmar,"  Caldwell  said.  "Why, 
yes,  she's  in  your  room." 

"Oh!"  said  Ditmar. 

"The  Boston  office  has  just  been  calling  you  —  they 
want  to  know  if  you  can't  take  the  nine  twenty-two,"  Cald 
well  went  on.  "It's  about  that  lawsuit.  It  comes  into 
court  Monday  morning,  and  Mr.  Sprole  is  there,  and  they 
say  they  have  to  see  you.  Miss  Bumpus  has  the  memoran 
dum." 

Ditmar  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Damn  it,  why  didn't  they  let  me  know  yesterday?"  he 
exclaimed.  "  I  won't  see  anybody,  Caldwell  —  not  even 
Orcutt  —  just  now.  You  understand.  I've  got  to  have  a 
little  time  to  do  some  letters.  I  won't  be  disturbed  —  by 
any  one  —  for  half  an  hour." 

Caldwell  nodded. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Ditmar." 

Ditmar  went  into  his  office,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
She  was  occupied  as  usual,  cutting  open  the  letters  and 
laying  them  in  a  pile  with  the  deftness  and  rapidity  that 
characterized  all  she  did. 

"  Janet ! "  he  exclaimed. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  199 

"There's  a  message  for  you  from  Boston.  I've  made  a 
note  of  it,"  she  replied. 

"  I  know  —  Caldwell  told  me.  But  I  wanted  to  see  you 
before  I  went  —  I  had  to  see  you.  I  sat  up  half  the  night 
thinking  of  you,  I  woke  up  thinking  of  you.  Aren't  you 
glad  to  see  me  ?  " 

She  dropped  the  letter  opener  and  stood  silent,  motion 
less,  awaiting  his  approach  —  a  pose  so  eloquent  of  the  sense 
of  fatality  strong  in  her  as  to  strike  him  with  apprehension, 
unused  though  he  was  to  the  appraisal  of  inner  values.  He 
read,  darkly,  something  of  this  mystery  in  her  eyes  as  they 
were  slowly  raised  to  his,  he  felt  afraid ;  he  was  swept  again 
by  those  unwonted  emotions  of  pity  and  tenderness  —  but 
when  she  turned  away  her  head  and  he  saw  the  bright  spot 
of  colour  growing  in  her  cheek,  spreading  to  her  temple, 
suffusing  her  throat,  when  he  touched  the  soft  contour  of 
her  arm,  his  passion  conquered.  .  .  .  Still  he  was  acutely 
conscious  of  a  resistance  within  her  —  not  as  before,  phys 
ically  directed  against  him,  but  repudiating  her  own  desire. 
She  became  limp  in  his  arms,  though  making  no  attempt  to 
escape,  and  he  knew  that  the  essential  sen7  of  her  he  craved 
still  evaded  and  defied  him.  And  he  clung  to  her  the  more 
desperately  —  as  though  by  crushing  her  peradventure  he 
might  capture  it. 

"You're  hurting  me,"  she  said  at  last,  and  he  let  her  go, 
standing  by  helplessly  while  she  went  through  the  move 
ments  of  readjustment  instinctive  to  women.  Even  in 
these  he  read  the  existence  of  the  reservation  he  was  loth 
to  acknowledge. 

"Don't  you  love  me?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know." 

"  You  do  ! "  he  said.     "  You  —  you  proved  it —  I  know  it." 

She  went  a  little  away  from  him,  picking  up  the  paper 
cutter,  but  it  lay  idle  in  her  hand. 


200  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"For  God's  sake,  tell  me  what's  the  matter!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  I  can't  stand  this.  Janet,  aren't  you  happy  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  love  you.  I  —  I've  never  been  so  happy 
in  my  life  as  I  was  this  morning.  Why  aren't  you  happy 

—  when  we  love  each  other  ?  " 
"Because  I'm  not." 

"Why  not?  There's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  make  you 
happy  —  you  know  that.  Tell  me  ! " 

"You  wouldn't  understand.  I  couldn't  make  you  under 
stand." 

"Is  it  something  I've  done?" 

"You  don't  love  me,"  she  said.  "You  only  want  me. 
I'm  not  made  that  way,  I'm  not  generous  enough,  I  guess. 
I've  got  to  have  work  to  do." 

"Work  to  do  !  But  you'll  share  my  work  —  it's  nothing 
without  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  knew  you  couldn't  understand. 
You  don't  realize  how  impossible  it  is.  I  don't  blame  you 

—  I  suppose  a  man  can't." 

She  was  not  upbraiding  him,  she  spoke  quietly,  in  a  tone 
almost  lifeless,  yet  the  emotional  effect  of  it  was  tremendous. 

"But,"  he  began,  and  stopped,  and  was  swept  on  again 
by  an  impulse  that  drowned  all  caution,  all  reason.  "But 
you  can  help  me  —  when  we  are  married." 

"  Married  I "  she  repeated.     "  You  want  to  marry  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes  —  I  need  you."  He  took  her  hands,  he  felt 
them  tremble  in  his,  her  breath  came  quickly,  but  her  gaze 
was  so  intent  as  seemingly  to  penetrate  to  the  depths  of  him. 
And  despite  his  man's  amazement  at  her  hesitation  now 
that  he  had  offered  her  his  all,  he  was  moved,  disturbed, 
ashamed  as  he  had  never  been  in  his  life.  At  length,  when 
he  could  stand  no  longer  the  suspense  of  this  inquisition, 
he  stammered  out :  "I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  201 

"  You've  wanted  to  marry  me  all  along  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  didn't  think,  Janet.  I  was  mad  about  you.  I  didn't 
know  you." 

"Do  you  know  me  now?" 

"That's  just  it,"  he  cried,  with  a  flash  of  clairvoyance, 
"  I  never  will  know  you  —  it's  what  makes  you  different 
from  any  woman  I've  ever  seen.  You'll  marry  me?" 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I've  thought  over  it,  and 
you  haven't.  A  woman  has  to  think,  a  man  doesn't,  — 
so  much.  And  now  you're  willing  to  marry  me,  if  you 
can't  get  me  any  other  way."  Her  hand  touched  his  coat, 
checking  his  protest.  "  It  isn't  that  I  want  marriage  —  what 
you  can  give  me  —  I'm  not  like  that,  I've  told  you  so  be 
fore.  But  I  couldn't  live  as  your  —  mistress." 

The  word  on  her  lips  shocked  him  a  little  —  but  her 
courage  and  candour  thrilled  him. 

"If  I  stayed  here,  it  would  be  found  out.  I  wouldn't 
let  you  keep  me.  I'd  have  to  have  work,  you  see,  or  I'd 
lose  my  self-respect  —  it's  all  I've  got  —  I'd  kill  myself." 
She  spoke  as  calmly  as  though  she  were  reviewing  the  situa 
tion  objectively.  "And  then,  I've  thought  that  you  might 
come  to  believe  you  really  wanted  to  marry  me  —  you 
wouldn't  realize  what  you  were  doing,  or  what  might  happen 
if  we  were  married.  I've  tried  to  tell  you  that,  too,  only 
you  didn't  seem  to  understand  what  I  was  saying.  My 
father's  only  a  gatekeeper,  we're  poor  —  poorer  than  some 
of  the  operatives  in  the  mill,  and  the  people  you  know  here 
in  Hampton  wouldn't  understand.  Perhaps  you  think 
you  wouldn't  care,  but  — "  she  spoke  with  more  effort, 
"there  are  your  children.  When  I've  thought  of  them,  it 
all  seems  impossible.  I'd  make  you  unhappy  —  I  couldn't 
bear  it,  I  wouldn't  stay  with  you.  You  see,  I  ought  to  have 
gone  away  long  ago." 

Believing,  as  he  did,  that  marriage  was  the  goal  of  all 


202  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

women,  even  of  the  best,  the  immediate  capitulation  he  had 
expected  would  have  made  matters  far  less  difficult.  But 
these  scruples  of  hers,  so  startlingly  his  own,  her  disquieting 
insight  into  his  entire  mental  process  had  a  momentary 
checking  effect,  summoned  up  the  vague  presage  of  a  future 
that  might  become  extremely  troublesome  and  complicated. 
His  very  reluctance  to  discuss  with  her  the  problem  she  had 
raised  warned  him  that  he  had  been  swept  into  deep  waters. 
On  the  other  hand,  her  splendid  resistance  appealed  to  him., 
enhanced  her  value.  And  accustomed  as  he  had  been  to 
a  life-long  self-gratification,  the  thought  of  being  balked 
in  this  supreme  desire  was  not  to  be  borne/  Such  were  the 
shades  of  his  feeling  as  he  listened  to  her. 

"That's  nonsense  I"  he  exclaimed,  when  she  had  finished. 
"You're  a  lady  —  I  know  all  about  your  family,  I  remember 
hearing  about  it  when  your  father  came  here  —  it's  as  good 
as  any  in  New  England.  What  do  you  suppose  I  care, 
Janet  ?  We  love  each  other  —  I've  got  to  have  you.  We'll 
be  married  in  the  spring,  when  the  rush  is  over." 

He  drew  her  to  him  once  more,  and  suddenly,  in  the 
ardour  of  that  embrace,  he  felt  her  tenseness  suddenly  relax 
—  as  though  against  her  will  —  and  her  passion,  as  she 
gave  her  lips,  vied  with  his  own.  Her  lithe  body  trembled 
convulsively,  her  cheeks  were  wet  as  she  clung  to  him  and 
hid  her  face  in  his  shoulder.  His  sensations  in  the  presence 
of  this  thing  he  had  summoned  up  in  her  were  incompre 
hensible,  surpassing  any  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  no 
longer  a  woman  he  held  in  his  arms,  the  woman  he 
craved,  but  something  greater,  more  fearful,  the  mystery 
of  sorrow  and  suffering,  of  creation  and  life  —  of  the 
universe  itself. 

"Janet  —  aren't  you  happy ? "  he  said  again. 

She  released  herself  and  smiled  at  him  wistfully  through 
her  tears. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  203 

"  I  don't  know.  What  I  feel  doesn't  seem  like  happiness. 
I  can't  believe  in  it,  somehow/' 

"You  must  believe  in  it/'  he  said. 

"I  can't,  —  perhaps  I  may,  later.  You'd  better  go  now," 
she  begged.  "You'll  miss  your  tram." 

He  glanced  at  the  office  clock.  "Confound  it,  I  have  to. 
Listen !  I'll  be  back  this  evening,  and  I'll  get  that  little 
car  of  mine  —  " 

"No,  not  to-night  —  I  don't  want  to  go  —  to-night." 

"Why  not?" 

"Not  to-night,"  she  repeated. 

"Well  then,  to-morrow.  To-morrow's  Sunday.  Do  you 
know  where  the  Boat  Club  is  on  the  River  Boulevard  ?  I'll 
be  there,  to-morrow  morning  at  ten.  I'd  come  for  you,  to 
your  house,"  he  added  quickly,  "but  we  don't  want  any  one 
to  know,  yet  —  do  we  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"We  must  keep  it  secret  for  a  while,"  he  said.  "Wear 
your  new  dress  —  the  blue  one.  Good-bye  —  sweetheart." 

He  kissed  her  again  and  hurried  out  of  the  office.  .  .  . 
Boarding  the  train  just  as  it  was  about  to  start,  he  settled 
himself  in  the  back  seat  of  the  smoker,  lit  a  cigar,  inhaling 
deep  breaths  of  the  smoke  and  scarcely  noticing  an  ac 
quaintance  who  greeted  him  from  the  aisle.  Well,  he  had 
done  it !  He  was  amazed.  He  had  not  intended  to  propose 
marriage,  and  when  he  tried  to  review  the  circumstances 
that  had  led  to  this  he  became  confused.  But  when  he 
asked  himself  whether  indeed  he  were  willing  to  pay  such  a 
price,  to  face  the  revolution  marriage  —  and  this  marriage 
in  particular  —  would  mean  in  his  life,  the  tumult  in  his 
blood  beat  down  his  incipient  anxieties.  Besides,  he  pos 
sessed  the  kind  of  mind  able  to  throw  off  the  consideration 
of  possible  consequences,  and  by  the  time  the  train  had 
slowed  down  in  the  darkness  of  the  North  Station  in  Boston 


204  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

all  traces  of  worry  had  disappeared.     The  future  would  take 
care  of  itself. 


For  the  Bumpus  family,  supper  that  evening  was  an 
unusually  harmonious  meal.  Hannah's  satisfaction  over  the 
new  stove  had  by  no  means  subsided,  and  Edward  ventured, 
without  reproof,  to  praise  the  restored  quality  of  the  pie 
crust.  And  in  contrast  to  her  usual  moroseness  and  self- 
absorption,  even  Lise  was  gay  —  largely  because  her  pet 
aversion,  the  dignified  and  allegedly  amorous  Mr.  Walters, 
floor-walker  at  the  Bagatelle,  had  fallen  down  the  length  of 
the  narrow  stairway  leading  from  the  cashier's  cage.  She 
became  almost  hysterical  with  glee  as  she  pictured  him 
lying  prone  beneath  the  counter  dedicated  to  lingerie,  draped 
with  various  garments  from  the  pile  that  toppled  over  on 
him.  "Ruby  Nash  picked  a  brassiere  off  his  whiskers!" 
Lise  shrieked.  "She  gave  the  pile  a  shove  when  he  landed. 
He's  got  her  number  all  right.  But  say,  it  was  worth  the 
price  of  admission  to  see  that  old  mutt  when  he  got  up,  — 
he  looked  like  Santa  Glaus.  All  the  girls  in  the  floor  were 
there  —  we  nearly  split  trying  to  keep  from  giving  him  the 
ha-ha.  And  Ruby  says,  sympathetic,  as  she  brushed  him 
off,  'I  hope  you  ain't  hurt,  Mr.  Walters.'  He  was  sore! 
He  went  around  all  afternoon  with  a  bunch  on  his  coco  as 
big  as  a  potato."  So  vivid  was  Lise's  account  of  this  affair  — 
which  apparently  she  regarded  as  compensation  for  many 
days  of  drudgery  —  that  even  Hannah  laughed,  though 
deploring  a  choice  of  language  symbolic  of  a  world  she  feared 
and  detested. 

"If  I  talked  like  you,"  said  Lise,  "they  wouldn't  under 
stand  me." 

Janet,  too,  was  momentarily  amused,  drawn  out  of  that 
reverie  in  which  she  had  dwelt  all  day,  ever  since  Ditmar 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  205 

had  left  for  Boston.  Now  she  began  to  wonder  what  would 
happen  if  she  were  suddenly  to  announce  "I'm  going  to 
marry  Mr.  Ditmar."  After  the  first  shock  of  amazement, 
she  could  imagine  her  father's  complete  and  complacent 
acceptance  of  the  news  as  a  vindication  of  an  inherent 
quality  in  the  Bumpus  blood.  He  would  begin  to  talk  about 
the  family.  For,  despite  what  might  have  been  deemed  a 
somewhat  disillusionizing  experience,  in  the  depths  of  his 
being  he  still  believed  in  the  Providence  who  had  presided 
over  the  perilous  voyage  of  the  Mayflower  and  the  birth  of 
Peregrine  White,  whose  omniscient  mind  was  peculiarly 
concerned  with  the  family  trees  of  Puritans.  And  what 
could  be  a  more  striking  proof  of  the  existence  of  this  Prov 
idence,  or  a  more  fitting  acknowledgment  on  his  part  of 
the  Bumpus  virtues,  than  that  Janet  should  become  the 
wife  of  the  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mills?  Janet  smiled. 
She  was  amused,  too,  by  the  thought  that  Lise's  envy  would 
be  modified  by  the  prospect  of  a  heightened  social  status; 
since  Lise,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  her  Providence  like 
wise.  Hannah's  god  was  not  a  Providence,  but  one  deeply 
skilled  in  persecution,  in  ingenious  methods  of  torture; 
one  who  would  not  hesitate  to  dangle  baubles  before  the 
eyes  of  his  children  —  only  to  snatch  them  away  again. 
Hannah's  pessimism  would  persist  as  far  as  the  altar,  and 
beyond ! 

On  the  whole,  such  was  Janet's  notion  of  the  Deity, 
though  deep  within  her  there  may  have  existed  a  hope  that 
he  might  be  outwitted ;  that,  by  dint  of  energy  and  brains, 
the  fair  things  of  life  might  be  obtained  despite  a  malicious 
opposition.  And  she  loved  Ditmar.  This  must  be  love 
she  felt,  this  impatience  to  see  him  again,  this  desire  to 
be  with  him,  this  agitation  possessing  her  so  utterly  that 
all  day  long  she  had  dwelt  in  an  unwonted  state  like  a  som 
nambulism  :  it  must  be  love,  though  not  resembling  in  the 


206  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

least  the  generally  accepted,  virginal  ideal.  She  saw  him 
as  he  was,  crude,  powerful,  relentless  in  his  desire ;  his  very 
faults  appealed.  His  passion  had  overcome  his  prudence, 
he  had  not  intended  to  propose,  but  any  shame  she  felt 
on  this  score  was  put  to  flight  by  a  fierce  exultation  over 
the  fact  that  she  had  brought  him  to  her  feet,  that  he  wanted 
her  enough  to  marry  her.  It  was  wonderful  to  be  wanted 
like  that !  But  she  could  not  achieve  the  mental  picture  of 
herself  as  Ditmar's  wife  —  especially  when,  later  in  the 
evening,  she  walked  up  Warren  Street  and  stood  gazing  at 
his  house  from  the  opposite  pavement.  She  simply  could 
not  imagine  herself  living  in  that  house  as  its  mistress. 
Notwithstanding  the  testimony  of  the  movies,  such  a 
Cinderella-like  transition  was  not  within  the  realm  of  prob 
able  facts ;  things  just  didn't  happen  that  way. 

She  recalled  the  awed  exclamation  of  Eda  when  they  had 
walked  together  along  Warren  Street  on  that  evening  in 
summer  :  "How  would  you  like  to  live  there  1"  —  and  hot 
with  sudden  embarrassment  and  resentment  she  had  dragged 
her  friend  onward,  to  the  corner.  In  spite  of  its  size,  of  the 
spaciousness  of  existence  it  suggested,  the  house  had  not 
appealed  to  her  then.  Janet  did  not  herself  realize  or 
estimate  the  innate  if  undeveloped  sense  of  form  she  pos 
sessed,  the  artist-instinct  that  made  her  breathless  on  first 
beholding  Silliston  Common.  And  then  the  vision  of  Sillis- 
ton  had  still  been  bright;  but  now  the  light  of  a  slender 
moon  was  as  a  gossamer  silver  veil  through  which  she  be 
held  the  house,  as  in  a  stage  setting,  softening  and  obscuring 
its  lines,  lending  it  qualities  of  dignity  and  glamour  that 
made  it  seem  remote,  unreal,  unattainable.  And  she  felt 
a  sudden,  overwhelming  longing,  as  though  her  breast  would 
burst.  .  .  . 

Through  the  drawn  blinds  the  lights  in  the  second  storey 
gleamed  yellow.  A  dim  lamp  burned  in  the  deep  vesti- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  207 

bule,  as  in  a  sanctuary.  And  then,  as  though  some  super- 
naturally  penetrating  ray  had  pierced  a  square  hole  in  the 
lower  walls,  a  glimpse  of  the  interior  was  revealed  to  her, 
of  the  living  room  at  the  north  end  of  the  house.  Two 
figures  chased  one  another  around  the  centre  table  —  Dit- 
mar's  children!  Was  Ditmar  there?  Impelled  irresistibly 
by  a  curiosity  overcoming  repugnance  and  fear,  she  went 
forward  slowly  across  the  street,  gained  the  farther  pave 
ment,  stepped  over  the  concrete  coping,  and  stood,  shivering 
violently,  on  the  lawn,  feeling  like  an  interloper  and  a  thief, 
yet  held  by  morbid  fascination.  The  children  continued  to 
romp.  The  boy  was  strong  and  swift,  the  girl  stout  and 
ungainly  in  her  movements,  not  mistress  of  her  body;  he 
caught  her  and  twisted  her  arm,  roughly  —  Janet  could 
hear  her  cries  through  the  window  —  when  an  elderly 
woman  entered,  seized  him,  struggling  with  him.  He  put 
out  his  tongue  at  her,  but  presently  released  his  sister, 
who  stood  rubbing  her  arm,  her  lips  moving  in  evident  re 
crimination  and  complaint.  The  faces  of  the  two  were  plain 
now;  the  boy  resembled  Ditmar,  but  the  features  of  the 
girl,  heavy  and  stamped  with  self-indulgence,  were  evidently 
reminiscent  of  the  woman  who  had  been  his  wife.  Then 
the  shade  was  pulled  down,  abruptly ;  and  Janet,  overcome 
by  a  sense  of  horror  at  her  position,  took  to  flight.  .  .  . 

When,  after  covering  the  space  of  a  block  she  slowed 
down  and  tried  to  imagine  herself  as  established  in  that 
house,  the  stepmother  of  those  children,  she  found  it  im 
possible.  Despite  the  fact  that  her  attention  had  been 
focussed  so  strongly  on  them,  the  fringe  of  her  vision  had 
included  their  surroundings,  the  costly  furniture,  the  piano 
against  the  farther  wall,  the  music  rack.  Evidently  the 
girl  was  learning  to  play.  She  felt  a  renewed,  intenser 
bitterness  against  her  own  lot :  she  was  aware  of  something 
within  her  better  and  finer  than  the  girl,  than  the  woman 


208  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

who  had  been  her  mother  had  possessed  —  that  in  her, 
Janet,  had  lacked  the  advantages  of  development.  Could 
it  —  could  it  ever  be  developed  now  ?  Had  this  love  which 
had  come  to  her  brought  her  any  nearer  to  the  unknown 
realm  of  light  she  craved  ?  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XI 


THOUGH  December  had  come,  Sunday  was  like  an  April 
day  before  whose  sunlight  the  night-mists  of  scruples  and 
morbid  fears  were  scattered  and  dispersed.  And  Janet, 
as  she  fared  forth  from  the  Fillmore  Street  flat,  felt  resurg- 
ing  in  her  the  divine  recklessness  that  is  the  very  sap  of 
life.  The  future,  save  of  the  immediate  hours  to  come, 
lost  its  power  over  her.  The  blue  and  white  beauty  of  the 
sky  proclaimed  all  things  possible  for  the  strong ;  and  the 
air  was  vibrant  with  the  sweet  music  of  bells,  calling  her  to 
happiness.  She  was  going  to  meet  happiness,  to  meet 
love  —  to  meet  Ditmar !  The  trolley  which  she  took  in 
Faber  Street,  though  lagging  in  its  mission,  seemed  an  agent 
of  that  happiness  as  it  left  the  city  behind  it  and  wound 
along  the  heights  beside  the  tarvia  roadway  above  the  river, 
bright  glimpses  of  which  she  caught  through  the  openings 
in  the  woods.  And  when  she  looked  out  of  the  window  on 
her  right  she  beheld  on  a  little  forested  rise  a  succession  of 
tiny  "camps"  built  by  residents  of  Hampton  whose  modest 
incomes  could  not  afford  more  elaborate  summer  places; 
camps  of  all  descriptions  and  colours,  with  queer  names 
that  made  her  smile  :  "The  Cranny, "  "The  Nook, "  "Snug 
Harbour,"  "  Buena  Vista,"  —  of  course,  —  which  she  thought 
pretty,  though  she  did  not  know  its  meaning ;  and  another, 
in  German,  equally  perplexing,  "  Klein  aber  Mein."  Though 
the  windows  of  these  places  were  nowT  boarded  up,  though 
the  mosquito  netting  still  clung  rather  dismally  to  the 
p  209 


210  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

porches,  they  were  mutely  suggestive  of  contentment  and 
domestic  joy. 

Scarcely  had  she  alighted  from  the  car  at  the  rendezvous 
he  had  mentioned,  beside  the  now  deserted  boathouse  where 
in  the  warm  weather  the  members  of  the  Hampton  Rowing 
Club  disported  themselves,  when  she  saw  an  automobile 
approaching  —  and  recognized  it  as  the  gay  "roadster" 
Ditmar  had  exhibited  to  her  that  summer  afternoon  by  the 
canal;  and  immediately  Ditmar  himself,  bringing  it  to  a 
stop  and  leaping  from  it,  stood  before  her  in  the  sunlight, 
radiating,  as  it  seemed,  more  sunlight  still.  With  his  clipped, 
blond  moustache  and  his  straw-coloured  hair  —  as  yet  but 
slightly  grey  at  the  temples  —  he  looked  a  veritable  con 
quering  berserker  in  his  huge  coat  of  golden  fur.  Never 
had  he  appeared  to  better  advantage. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,"  he  said,  "I  saw  you  in  the  car." 
Turning  to  the  automobile,  he  stripped  the  tissue  paper 
from  a  cluster  of  dark  red  roses  with  the  priceless  long 
stems  of  which  Lise  used  to  rave  when  she  worked  in  the 
flower  store.  And  he  held  the  flowers  against  her  suit  — 
her  new  suit  she  had  worn  for  this  meeting. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  taking  a  deep,  intoxicating  breath  of 
their  fragrance.  "  You  brought  these  —  for  me  ?  " 

"  From  Boston  —  my  beauty ! " 

"But  I  can't  wear  all  of  them !" 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded.     "Haven't  you  a  pin?" 

She  produced  one,  attaching  them  with  a  gesture  that 
seemed  habitual,  though  the  thought  of  their  value  — 
revealing  in  some  degree  her  own  worth  in  his  eyes  —  un 
nerved  her.  She  was  warmly  conscious  of  his  gaze.  Then 
he  turned,  and  opening  a  compartment  at  the  back  of  the 
car  drew  from  it  a  bright  tweed  motor  coat  warmly  lined. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  protested,  drawing  back.  "  I'll  —  I'll 
be  warm  enough."  But  laughingly,  triumphantly,  he  seized 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  211 

her  and  thrust  her  arms  in  the  sleeves,  his  fingers  pressing 
against  her.  Overcome  by  shyness,  she  drew  away  from  him. 

"  I  made  a  pretty  good  guess  at  the  size  —  didn't  I, 
Janet?"  he  cried,  delightedly  surveying  her.  "I  couldn't 
forget  it!"  His  glance  grew  more  concentrated,  warmer, 
penetrating. 

"You  mustn't  look  at  me  like  that!"  she  pleaded 
with  lowered  eyes. 

"  Why  not  —  you're  mine  —  aren't  you  ?  You're  mine, 
now." 

"I  don't  know.  There  are  lots  of  things  I  want  to  talk 
about,"  she  replied,  but  her  protest  sounded  feeble,  uncon 
vincing,  even  to  herself.  He  fairly  lifted  her  into  the 
automobile  —  it  was  a  caress,  only  tempered  by  the  semi- 
publicity  of  the  place.  He  was  giving  her  no  time  to  think 
—  but  she  did  not  want  to  think.  Starting  the  engine,  he 
got  in  and  leaned  toward  her. 

"  Not  here ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"All  right  —  I'll  wait,"  he  agreed,  tucking  the  robe  about 
her  deftly,  solicitously,  and  she  sank  back  against  the  seat, 
surrendering  herself  to  the  luxury,  the  wonder  of  being 
cherished,  the  caressing  and  sheltering  warmth  she  felt 
of  security  and  love,  the  sense  of  emancipation  from  dis 
content  and  sordidness  and  struggle.  For  a  moment  she 
closed  her  eyes,  but  opened  them  again  to  behold  the  trans 
formed  image  of  herself  reflected  in  the  windshield  to  confirm 
the  illusion  —  if  indeed  it  were  one !  The  tweed  coat 
seemed  startlingly  white  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  woman 
she  saw,  yet  recognized  as  herself,  was  one  of  the  fortunately 
placed  of  the  earth  with  power  and  beauty  at  her  command  ! 
And  she  could  no  longer  imagine  herself  as  the  same  person 
who  the  night  before  had  stood  in  front  of  the  house  in 
Warren  Street.  The  car  was  speeding  over  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  boulevard ;  the  swift  motion,  which  seemed 


212  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  her  like  that  of  flying,  the  sparkling  air,  the  brightness 
of  the  day,  the  pressure  of  Ditmar's  shoulder  against  hers, 
thrilled  her.  She  marvelled  at  his  sure  command  over  the 
machine,  that  responded  like  a  live  thing  to  his  touch. 
On  the  wide,  straight  stretches  it  went  at  a  mad  pace  that 
took  her  breath,  and  again,  in  turning  a  corner  or  passing 
another  car,  it  slowed  down,  purring  in  meek  obedience. 
Once  she  gasped  :  — 

"  Not  so  fast !     I  can't  stand  it." 

He  laughed  and  obeyed  her.  They  glided  between  river 
and  sky  across  the  delicate  fabric  of  a  bridge  which  but  a 
moment  before  she  had  seen  in  the  distance.  Running 
through  the  little  village  on  the  farther  bank,  they  left  the 
river. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Oh,  for  a  little  spin,"  he  answered  indulgently,  turning 
into  a  side  road  that  wound  through  the  woods  and  suddenly 
stopping.  "  Janet,  we've  got  this  day  —  this  whole  day  to 
ourselves."  He  seized  and  drew  her  to  him,  and  she  yielded 
dizzily,  repaying  the  passion  of  his  kiss,  forgetful  of  past 
and  future  while  he  held  her,  whispering  brokenly  endearing 
phrases. 

"You'll  ruin  my  roses,"  she  protested  breathlessly,  at 
last,  when  it  seemed  that  she  could  no  longer  bear  this 
embrace,  nor  the  pressure  of  his  lips.  *' There!  you  see 
you're  crushing  them!"  She  undid  them,  and  buttoning 
the  coat,  held  them  to  her  face.  Their  odour  made  her 
faint :  her  eyes  were  clouded. 

"Listen,  Claude!"  she  said  at  last,  —  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  called  him  so  —  getting  free.  "You  must  be 
sensible !  some  one  might  come  along." 

"I'll  never  get  enough  of  you!"  he  said.  "I  can't  be 
lieve  it  yet."  And  added  irrelevantly:  "Pin  the  roses 
outside." 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  213 

She  shook  her  head.  Something  in  her  protested  against 
this  too  public  advertisement  of  their  love. 

"I'd  rather  hold  them/7  she  answered.  "Let's  go  on." 
He  started  the  car  again.  "Listen,  I  want  to  talk  to  you, 
seriously.  I've  been  thinking." 

"Don't  I  know  you've  been  thinking!"  he  told  her 
exuberantly.  "If  I  could  only  find  out  what's  always 
going  on  in  that  little  head  of  yours  !  If  you  keep  on  think 
ing  you'll  dry  up,  like  a  New  England  school-marm.  And 
now  do  you  know  what  you  are?  One  of  those  dusky 
red  roses  just  ready  to  bloom.  Some  day  I'll  buy  enough  to 
smother  you  in  'em." 

"  Listen !  "  she  repeated,  making  a  great  effort  to  calm 
herself,  to  regain  something  of  that  frame  of  mind  in  which 
their  love  had  assumed  the  proportions  of  folly  and  madness, 
to  summon  up  the  scruples  which,  before  she  had  left  home 
that  morning,  she  had  resolved  to  lay  before  him,  which  she 
knew  would  return  when  she  could  be  alone  again.  "I 
have  to  think  —  you  won't,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  fleeting 
smile. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  assented.  "You  might  as  well 
get  it  off  now." 

And  it  took  all  her  strength  to  say:  "I  don't  see  how 
I  can  marry  you.  I've  told  you  the  reasons.  You're  rich, 
and  you  have  friends  who  wouldn't  understand  —  and  your 
children  —  they  wouldn't  understand.  I  —  I'm  nothing,  I 
know  it  isn't  right,  I  know  you  wouldn't  be  happy.  I've 
never  lived  —  in  the  kind  of  house  you  live  in  and  known 
the  kind  of  people  you  know,  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do." 

He  took  his  eyes  off  the  road  and  glanced  down  at  her 
curiously.  His  s^ile  was  self-confident,  exultant. 

"Now  do  you  feel  better  —  you  little  Puritan?"  he  said. 

And  perforce  she  smiled  in  return,  a  pucker  appearing 
between  her  eyebrows. 


214  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  mean  it,"  she  said.  "I  came  out  to  tell  you  so.  I 
know  —  it  just  isn't  possible." 

"  I'd  marry  you  to-day  if  I  could  get  a  license,"  he  declared. 
"Why,  you're  worth  any  woman  in  America,  I  don't  care 
who  she  is,  or  how  much  money  she  has." 

In  spite  of  herself  she  was  absurdly  pleased. 

"Now  that  is  over,  we  won't  discuss  it  again,  do  you 
understand?  I've  got  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  mean  to  hold 
on  to  you." 

She  sighed.  He  was  driving  slowly  now  along  the  sandy 
road,  and  with  his  hand  on  hers  she  simply  could  not  think. 
The  spell  of  his  nearness,  of  his  touch,  which  all  nature 
that  morning  conspired  to  deepen,  was  too  powerful  to  be 
broken,  and  something  was  calling  to  her,  "Take  this  day, 
take  this  day,"  drowning  out  the  other  voice  demanding 
an  accounting.  She  was  living  —  what  did  it  all  matter  ? 
She  yielded  herself  to  the  witchery  of  the  hour,  the  sheer 
delight  of  forthfaring  into  the  unknown. 

They  turned  away  from  the  river,  crossing  the  hills  of  a 
rolling  country  now  open,  now  wooded,  passing  white  farm 
houses  and  red  barns,  and  ancient,  weather-beaten  dwellings 
with  hipped  roofs  and  "lean-tos"  which  had  been  there 
in  colonial  days  when  the  road  was  a  bridle-path.  Cows 
and  horses  stood  gazing  at  them  from  warm  paddocks, 
where  the  rich,  black  mud  glistened,  melted  by  the  sun; 
chickens  scratched  and  clucked  in  the  barnyards  or  flew 
frantically  across  the  road,  sometimes  within  an  ace  of 
destruction.  Janet  flinched,  but  Ditmar  would  laugh,  glee 
fully,  boyishly. 

"We  nearly  got  that  one !"  he  would  exclaim.  And  then 
he  had  to  assure  her  that  he  wouldn't  run  over  them. 

"  I  haven't  run  over  one  yet,  —  have  I  ?  "  he  would 
demand. 

"No,  but  you  will,  it's  only  luck." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  215 

"Luck!"  he  cried  derisively.  "Skill!  I  wish  I  had  a 
dollar  for  every  one  I  got  when  I  was  learning  to  drive. 
There  was  a  farmer  over  here  in  Chester—  "  and  he  pro 
ceeded  to  relate  how  he  had  had  to  pay  for  two  turkeys. 
"He  got  my  number,  the  old  hayseed,  he  was  laying  for  me, 
and  the  next  time  I  went  back  that  way  he  held  me  up  for 
five  dollars.  I  can  remember  the  time  when  a  man  in  a 
motor  was  an  easy  mark  for  every  reuben  in  the  county. 
They  got  rich  on  us." 

She  responded  to  his  mood,  which  was  wholly  irresponsible, 
exuberant,  and  they  laughed  together  like  children,  every 
little  incident  assuming  an  aspect  irresistibly  humorous. 
Once  he  stopped  to  ask  an  old  man  standing  in  his  door- 
yard  how  far  it  was  to  Kingsbury. 

"Wai,  mebbe  it's  two  mile,  they  mostly  call  it  two," 
said  the  patriarch,  after  due  reflection,  gathering  his  beard 
in  his  hand.  "Mebbe  it's  more."  His  upper  lip  was  blue, 
shaven,  prehensile. 

"What  did  you  ask  him  for,  when  you  know?"  said 
Janet,  mirthfully,  when  they  had  gone  on,  and  Ditmar  was 
imitating  him.  Ditmar's  reply  was  to  wink  at  her.  Pres 
ently  they  saw  another  figure  on  the  road. 

"Let's  see  what  he'll  say,"  Ditmar  proposed.  This  man 
was  young,  the  colour  of  mahogany,  with  glistening  black 
hair  and  glistening  black  eyes  that  regarded  the  too  pal 
pable  joyousness  of  their  holiday  humour  in  mute  surprise. 

"I  no  know  —  stranger,"  he  said. 

"No  speaka  Portuguese?"  inquired  Ditmar,  gravely. 

"The  country  is  getting  filthy  with  foreigners,"  he  ob 
served,  when  he  had  started  the  car.  "I  went  down  to 
Plymouth  last  summer  to  see  the  old  rock,  and  by  George, 
it  seemed  as  if  there  wasn't  anybody  could  speak  American 
on  the  whole  cape.  All  the  Portuguese  islands  are  dumped 
there  —  cranberry  pickers,  you  know." 


216  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  didn't  know  that/'  said  Janet. 

"Sure  thing!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  when  I  got  there, 
what  do  you  think?  there  was  hardly  enough  of  the  old 
stone  left  to  stand  on,  and  that  had  a  fence  around  it  like 
an  exhibit  in  an  exposition.  It  had  all  been  chipped  away 
by  souvenir  hunters." 

She  gazed  at  him  incredulously. 

"You  don't  believe  me !  I'll  take  you  down  there  some 
time.  And  another  thing,  the  rock's  high  and  dry  —  up  on 
the  land.  I  said  to  Charlie  Crane,  who  was  with  me,  that 
it  must  have  been  a  peach  of  a  jump  for  old  Miles  Standish 
and  Priscilla  what's  her  name." 

"How  I'd  love  to  see  the  ocean  again!"  Janet  ex 
claimed. 

"Why,  I'll  take  you  —  as  often  as  you  like,"  he  promised. 
"We'll  go  out  on  it  in  summer,  up  to  Maine,  or  down  to  the 
Cape." 

Her  enchantment  was  now  so  great  that  nothing  seemed 
impossible. 

"And  we'll  go  down  to  Plymouth,  too,  some  Sunday  soon, 
if  this  weather  keeps  up.  If  we  start  early  enough  we  can 
get  there  for  lunch,  easy.  We'll  see  the  rock.  I  guess 
some  of  your  ancestors  must  have  come  over  with  that 
Mayflower  outfit  —  first  cabin,  eh?  You  look  like  it." 

Janet  laughed.  "It's  a  joke  on  them,  if  they  did.  I 
wonder  what  they'd  think  of  Hampton,  if  they  could  see 
it  now.  I  counted  up  once,  just  to  tease  father  —  he's 
the  seventh  generation  from  Ebenezer  Bumpus,  who  came 
to  Dolton.  Well,  I  proved  to  him  he  might  have  one  hun 
dred  and  twenty-six  other  ancestors  besides  Ebenezer  and 
his  wife." 

"That  must  have  jarred  him  some,"  was  Ditmar's  com 
ment.  "Great  old  man,  your  father.  I've  talked  to  him 
—  he's  a  regular  historical  society  all  by  himself.  Well, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  217 

there  must  be  something  in  it,  this  family  business.  Now, 
you  can  tell  he  comes  from  fine  old  American  stock  —  he 
looks  it." 

Janet  flushed.     "A  lot  of  good  it  does  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ditmar.  "It's  something  to  fall 
back  on  —  a  good  deal.  And  he  hasn't  got  any  of  that 
nonsense  in  his  head  about  labour  unions  —  he's  a  straight 
American.  And  you  look  the  part,"  he  added.  "You 
remind  me  —  I  never  thought  of  it  until  now  —  you  remind 
me  of  a  picture  of  Priscilla  I  saw  once  in  a  book  of  poems  — 
Longfellow's,  you  know.  I'm  not  much  on  literature,  but 
I  remember  that,  and  I  remember  thinking  she  could  have 
me.  Funny  isn't  it,  that  you  should  have  come  along? 
But  you've  got  more  ginger  than  the  woman  in  that  picture. 
I'm  the  only  man  that  ever  guessed  it  —  isn't  that  so?" 
he  asked  jealously. 

"You're  wonderful!"  retorted  Janet,  daringly. 

"You  just  bet  I  am,  or  I  couldn't  have  landed  you," 
he  asserted.  "You're  chock  full  of  ginger,  but  it's  been  all 
corked  up.  You're  so  prim  —  so  Priscilla."  He  was  im 
mensely  pleased  with  the  adjective  he  had  coined,  repeating 
it.  "  It's  a  great  combination.  When  I  think  of  it,  I  want 
to  shake  you,  to  squeeze  you  until  you  scream." 

"Then  please  don't  think  of  it,"  she  said. 

"That's  easy  !"  he  exclaimed,  mockingly. 

At  a  quarter  to  one  they  entered  a  sleepy  village  rem 
iniscent  of  a  Xew  England  of  other  days.  The  long  street, 
deeply  shaded  in  summer,  was  bordered  by  decorous  homes, 
some  of  which  had  stood  there  for  a  century  and  a  half; 
others  were  of  the  Mansard  period.  The  high  school, 
of  strawberry-coloured  brick,  had  been  the  pride  and  glory 
of  the  Kingsbury  of  the  70s:  there  were  many  churches, 
some  graceful  and  some  hideous.  At  the  end  of  the  street 
they  came  upon  a  common,  surrounded  by  stone  posts  and 


218  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

a  railing,  with  a  monument  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  facing 
the  common  on  the  north  side  was  a  rambling  edifice  with 
many  white  gables,  in  front  of  which,  from  an  iron  arm  on 
a  post,  swung  a  quaint  sign,  "Kingsbury  Tavern."  In 
revolutionary  and  coaching  days  the  place  had  been  a  famous 
inn;  and  now,  thanks  to  the  enterprise  of  a  man  who  had 
foreseen  the  possibilities  of  an  era  of  automobiles,  it  had 
become  even  more  famous.  A  score  of  these  modern  ve 
hicles  were  drawn  up  before  it  under  the  bare,  ancient  elms ; 
there  was  a  scene  of  animation  on  the  long  porch,  where 
guests  strolled  up  and  down  or  sat  in  groups  in  the  rocking- 
chairs  which  the  mild  weather  had  brought  forth  again. 
Ditmar  drew  up  in  line  with  the  other  motors,  and  stopped. 

"Well,  here  we  are!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  pulled  off  his 
gauntlets.  "I  guess  I  could  get  along  with  something  to 
eat.  How  about  you  ?  They  treat  you  as  well  here  as  any 
place  I  know  of  in  New  England." 

He  assumed  their  lunching  together  at  a  public  place  as 
a  matter  of  course  to  which  there  could  not  possibly  be  an 
objection,  springing  out  of  the  car,  removing  the  laprobe 
from  her  knees,  and  helping  her  to  alight.  She  laid  the 
roses  on  the  seat. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  bring  them  along ? "  he  demanded. 

"I'd  rather  not,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  think  they'll  be 
safe  here?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  so,"  he  replied.  She  was  always  surprising 
him ;  but  her  solicitation  concerning  them  was  a  balm,  and 
he  found  all  such  instinctive  acts  refreshing. 

"Afraid  of  putting  up  too  much  of  a  front,  are  you?" 
he  asked  smilingly. 

"I'd  rather  leave  them  here,"  she  replied.  As  she  walked 
beside  Ditmar  to  the  door  she  was  excited,  unwontedly 
self-conscious,  painfully  aware  of  inspection  by  the  groups 
on  the  porch.  She  had  seen  such  people  as  these  hurrying 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  219 

in  automobiles  through  the  ugliness  of  Faber  Street  in 
Hampton  toward  just  such  delectable  spots  as  this  village 
of  Kingsbury  —  people  of  that  world  of  freedom  and  priv 
ilege  from  which  she  was  excluded ;  Ditmar  s  world.  He  was 
at  home  here.  But  she?  The  delusion  that  she  somehow 
had  been  miraculously  snatched  up  into  it  was  marred  by 
their  glances.  What  were  they  thinking  of  her  ?  Her  face 
was  hot  as  she  passed  them  and  entered  the  hall,  where  more 
people  were  gathered.  But  Ditmars  complacency,  his  ease 
and  self-confidence,  his  manner  of  owning  the  place,  as  it 
were,  somewhat  reassured  her.  He  went  up  to  the  desk, 
behind  which  stood  a  burly,  red-complexioned  man  who 
greeted  him  effusively,  yet  with  the  air  of  respect  accorded 
the  powerful. 

"Hullo,  Eddie,"  said  Ditmar.  "You've  got  a  good  crowd 
here  to-day.  Any  room  for  me  ?  " 

"Sure,  Mr.  Ditmar,  we  can  always  make  room  for  you. 
Well,  I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  you  for  a  dog's  age.  Only 
last  Sunday  Mr.  Crane  was  here,  and  I  was  asking  him  where 
you'd  been  keeping  yourself." 

"Why,  I've  been  busy,  Eddie.  I've  landed  the  biggest 
order  ever  heard  of  in  Hampton.  Some  of  us  have  to  work, 
you  know ;  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  loaf  around  this  place 
and  smoke  cigars  and  rake  in  the  money." 

The  proprietor  of  the  Kingsbury  Tavern  smiled  indul 
gently  at  this  persiflage. 

"Let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Bumpus,"  said  Ditmar. 
"This  is  my  friend,  Eddie  Hale,"  he  added,  for  Janet's 
benefit.  "And  when  you've  eaten  his  dinner  you'll  believe 
me  when  I  say  he's  got  all  the  other  hotel  men  beaten  a  mile." 

Janet  smiled  and  flushed.  She  had  been  aware  of  Mr. 
Hale's  discreet  glance. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said,  with  a 
somewhat  elaborate  bow. 


220  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Eddie,"  said  Ditmar,  "have  you  got  a  nice  little  table 
for  us?" 

"It's  a  pity  I  didn't  know  you  was  coming,  but  I'll  do  my 
best,"  declared  Mr.  Hale,  opening  the  door  in  the  counter. 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  can  fix  us  all  right,  if  you  want  to, 
Eddie." 

"Mr.  Ditmar's  a  great  josher,"  Mr.  Hale  told  Janet 
confidentially  as  he  escorted  them  into  the  dining-room. 
And  Ditmar,  gazing  around  over  the  heads  of  the  diners, 
spied  in  an  alcove  by  a  window  a  little  table  with  tilted 
chairs. 

"Thatone'lldo,"hesaid. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  engaged,"  apologized  Mr.  Hale. 

"Forget  it,  Eddie  — tell  'em  they're  late,"  said  Ditmar, 
making  his  way  toward  it. 

The  proprietor  pulled  out  Janet's  chair. 

"Say,"  he  remarked,  "it's  no  wonder  you  get  along  in 
business." 

"Well,  this  is  cosy,  isn't  it?"  said  Ditmar  to  Janet  when 
they  were  alone.  He  handed  her  the  menu,  and  snapped 
his  fingers  for  a  waitress. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  coming  to  this  place?" 
she  asked. 

"  I  wanted  to  surprise  you.     Don't  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  Only  — " 

"Only,  what?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  like  that  —  here." 

"All  right.  I'll  try  to  be  good  until  we  get  into  the  car 
again.  You  watch  me !  I'll  behave  as  if  we'd  been  married 
ten  years." 

He  snapped  his  fingers  again,  and  the  waitress  hurried 
up  to  take  their  orders. 

"Kingsbury's  still  dry,  I  guess,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  who 
smiled  sympathetically,  somewhat  ruefully.  When  she  had 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  221 

gone  he  began  to  talk  to  Janet  about  the  folly,  in  general, 
of  prohibition,  the  fusel  oil  distributed  on  the  sly.  "I'll 
bet  I  could  go  out  and  find  half  a  dozen  rum  shops  within  a 
mile  of  here  !"  he  declared. 

Janet  did  not  doubt  it.  Ditmar's  aplomb,  his  faculty 
of  getting  what  he  wanted,  had  amused  and  distracted  her. 
She  was  growing  calmer,  able  to  scrutinize,  at  first  covertly 
and  then  more  boldly  the  people  at  the  other  tables,  only  to 
discover  that  she  and  Ditmar  were  not  the  objects  of  the 
universal  curiosity  she  had  feared.  Once  in  a  while,  indeed, 
she  encountered  and  then  avoided  the  glance  of  some  man, 
felt  the  admiration  in  it,  was  thrilled  a  little,  and  her  sense 
of  exhilaration  returned  as  she  regained  her  poise.  She 
must  be  nice  looking  —  more  than  that  —  in  her  new  suit. 
On  entering  the  tavern  she  had  taken  off  the  tweed  coat, 
which  Ditmar  had  carried  and  laid  on  a  chair.  This  new 
and  amazing  adventure  began  to  go  to  her  head  like 
wine.  .  .  . 

When  luncheon  was  over  they  sat  in  a  sunny  corner  of  the 
porch  while  Ditmar  smoked  his  cigar.  His  digestion  was 
good,  his  spirits  high,  his  love-making  —  on  account  of  the 
public  nature  of  the  place  —  surreptitious  yet  fervent. 
The  glamour  to  which  Janet  had  yielded  herself  was  on 
occasions  slightly  troubled  by  some  new  and  enigmatic 
element  to  be  detected  in  his  voice  and  glances  suggestive 
of  intentions  vaguely  disquieting.  At  last  she  said  :  — 

"  Oughtn't  we  to  be  going  home  ?  " 

"Home!"  he  ridiculed  the  notion.  "I'm  going  to  take 
you  to  the  prettiest  road  you  ever  saw  —  around  by  French's 
Lower  Falls.  I  only  wish  it  was  summer." 

"I  must  be  home  before  dark,"  she  told  him.  "You  see, 
the  family  don't  know^  where  I  am.  I  haven't  said  anything 
to  them  about  —  about  this." 

"That's  right,"   he  said,   after  a  moment's  hesitation. 


222  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  didn't  think  you  would.  There's  plenty  of  time  for 
that  —  after  things  get  settled  a  little  —  isn't  there  ?  " 

She  thought  his  look  a  little  odd,  but  the  impression  passed 
as  they  walked  to  the  motor.  He  insisted  now  on  her  pin 
ning  the  roses  on  the  tweed  coat,  and  she  humoured  him. 
The  winter  sun  had  already  begun  to  drop,  and  with  the  level 
ling  rays  the  bare  hillsides,  yellow  and  brown  in  the  higher 
light,  were  suffused  with  pink;  little  by  little,  as  the  sun 
fell  lower,  imperceptible  clouds  whitened  the  blue  cambric 
of  the  sky,  distant  copses  were  stained  lilac.  And  Janet, 
as  she  gazed,  wondered  at  a  world  that  held  at  once  so  much 
beauty,  so  much  joy  and  sorrow,  —  such  strange  sorrow  as 
began  to  invade  her  now,  not  personal,  but  cosmic.  At 
times  it  seemed  almost  to  suffocate  her;  she  drew  in  deep 
breaths  of  air  :  it  was  the  essence  of  all  things  —  of  the  man 
by  her  side,  of  herself,  of  the  beauty  so  poignantly  revealed 
to  her. 

Gradually  Ditmar  became  conscious  of  this  detachment, 
this  new  evidence  of  an  extraordinary  faculty  of  escaping 
him  that  seemed  unimpaired.  Constantly  he  tried  by 
leaning  closer  to  her,  by  reaching  out  his  hand,  to  reassure 
himself  that  she  was  at  least  physically  present.  And 
though  she  did  not  resent  these  tokens,  submitting  passively, 
he  grew  perplexed  and  troubled ;  his  optimistic  atheism 
concerning  things  unseen  was  actually  shaken  by  the  im 
pression  she  conveyed  of  beholding  realities  hidden  from  him. 
Shadows  had  begun  to  gather  in  the  forest,  filmy  mists  to 
creep  over  the  waters.  He  asked  if  she  were  cold,  and  she 
shook  her  head  and  sighed  as  one  coming  out  of  a  trance, 
smiling  at  him. 

"  It's  been  a  wonderful  day  ! "  she  said. 

"  The  greatest  ever  1"  he  agreed.  And  his  ardour,  mount 
ing  again,  swept  away  the  unwonted  mood  of  tenderness 
and  awe  she  had  inspired  in  him,  made  him  bold  to  suggest 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  223 

the  plan  which  had  been  the  subject  of  an  ecstatic  con 
templation. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  he  said,  "we'll  take  a  little 
run  down  to  Boston  and  have  dinner  together.  We'll  be 
there  in  an  hour,  and  back  by  ten  o'clock." 

"  To  Boston ! "  she  repeated.     "  Now  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  stopping  the  car.  "Here's  the 
road  —  it's  a  boulevard  all  the  way." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  proposal  as  the  passion  in  his 
voice,  in  his  touch,  the  passion  to  which  she  felt  herself 
responding  that  filled  her  with  apprehension  and  dismay, 
and  yet  aroused  her  pride  and  anger. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  to  be  home,"  she  said. 

"I'll  have  you  home  by  ten  o'clock,  I  promise.  We're 
going  to  be  married,  Janet,"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  if  you  meant  to  marry  me  you  wouldn't  ask  me  to 
do  this!"  she  cried.  "I  want  to  go  back  to  Hampton. 
If  you  won't  take  me,  I'll  walk." 

She  had  drawn  away  from  him,  and  her  hand  was  on  the 
door.  He  seized  her  arm. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  take  it  that  way!"  he  cried,  in 
genuine  alarm.  "  All  I  meant  was  —  that  we'd  have  a  nice 
little  dinner.  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  you,  it'll  be  a  whole 
week  before  we  get  another  day.  Do  you  suppose  I'd  — 
I'd  do  anything  to  insult  you,  Janet?" 

With  her  fingers  still  tightened  over  the  door-catch  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly.  "Sometimes  I  think 
you  would.  Why  shouldn't  you  ?  Why  should  you  marry 
me?  Why  shouldn't  you  try  to  do  with  me  what  you've 
done  with  other  women  ?  I  don't  know  anything  about  the 
world,  about  life.  I'm  nobody.  Why  shouldn't  you?" 

"  Because  you're  not  like  the  other  wromen  —  that's 
why.  I  love  you  —  won't  you  believe  it?"  He  was  beside 


224  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

himself  with  anxiety.  "  Listen  —  I'll  take  you  home  if  you 
want  to  go.  You  don't  know  how  it  hurts  me  to  have  you 
think  such  things !" 

"  Well,  then,  take  me  home,"  she  said.  It  was  but  gradually 
that  she  became  pacified.  A  struggle  was  going  on  within 
her  between  these  doubts  of  him  he  had  stirred  up  again  and 
other  feelings  aroused  by  his  pleadings.  Night  fell,  and 
when  they  reached  the  Silliston  road  the  lights  of  Hampton 
shone  below  them  in  the  darkness. 

"You'd  better  let  me  out  here,"  she  said.  "You  can't 
drive  me  home." 

He  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  beside  one  of  the  small 
wooden  shelters  built  for  the  convenience  of  passengers. 

"You  forgive  me  —  you  understand,  Janet?"  he  asked. 

"Sometimes  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  she  said,  and 
suddenly  clung  to  him.  "I  —  I  forgive  you.  I  oughtn't 
to  suspect  such  things,  but  I'm  like  that.  I'm  horrid  — 
and  I  can't  help  it."  She  began  to  unbutton  the  coat  he 
had  bought  for  her. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  take  it?"    he  said.     "It's  yours." 

"And  what  do  you  suppose  my  family  would  say  if  I 
told  them  Mr.  Ditmar  had  given  it  to  me?" 

"Come  on,  I'll  drive  you  home,  I'll  tell  them  I  gave  it 
to  you,  that  we're  going  to  be  married,"  he  announced 
recklessly. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  she  exclaimed  in  consternation.  "  You  couldn't. 
You  said  so  yourself  —  that  you  didn't  want  any  one  to 
know,  now.  I'll  get  on  the  trolley." 

"  And  the  roses  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  pressed  them  to  her  face,  and  chose  one.  "I'll  take 
this,"  she  said,  laying  the  rest  on  the  seat.  .  .  . 

He  waited  until  he  saw  her  safely  on  the  trolley  car,  and 
then  drove  slowly  homeward  in  a  state  of  amazement.  He 
had  been  on  the  verge  of  announcing  himself  to  the  family 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  225 

in  Fillmore  Street  as  her  prospective  husband!  He  tried 
to  imagine  what  that  household  was  like;  and  again  he 
found  himself  wondering  why  she  had  not  consented  to  his 
proposal.  And  the  ever-recurring  question  presented  itself — 
was  he  prepared  to  go  that  length  ?  He  didn't  know.  She 
was  beyond  him,  he  had  no  clew  to  her,  she  was  to  him  as 
mysterious  as  a  symphony.  Certain  strains  of  her  moved 
him  intensely  —  the  rest  was  beyond  his  grasp.  ...  At 
supper,  while  his  children  talked  and  laughed  boisterously, 
he  sat  silent,  restless,  and  in  spite  of  their  presence  the  house 
seemed  appallingly  empty. 


When  Janet  returned  home  she  ran  to  her  bedroom,  and 
taking  from  the  wardrobe  the  tissue  paper  that  had  come 
with  her  new  dress,  and  which  she  had  carefully  folded, 
she  wrapped  the  rose  in  it,  and  put  it  away  in  the  back  of  a 
drawer.  Thus  smothered,  its  fragrance  stifled,  it  seemed 
emblematic,  somehow,  of  the  clandestine  nature  of  her 
love.  .  .  . 

The  weeks  that  immediately  followed  were  strange  ones. 
All  the  elements  of  life  that  previously  had  been  realities, 
trivial  yet  fundamental,  her  work,  her  home,  her  intercourse 
with  the  family,  became  fantastic.  There  was  the  mill  to 
which  she  went  every  day :  she  recognized  it,  yet  it  was  not 
the  same  mill,  nor  was  Fillmore  Street  the  Fillmore  Street  of 
old.  Nor  did  the  new  and  feverish  existence  over  whose 
borderland  she  had  been  transported  seem  real,  save  in 
certain  hours  she  spent  in  Ditmar's  company,  when  he  made 
her  forget  —  hers  being  a  temperament  to  feel  the  weight 
of  an  unnatural  secrecy.  She  was  aware,  for  instance,  that 
her  mother  and  even  her  father  thought  her  conduct  odd, 
were  anxious  as  to  her  absences  on  certain  nights  and  on 
Sundays.  She  offered  no  explanation.  It  was  impossible. 
Q 


226  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

She  understood  that  the  reason  why  they  refrained  from 
questioning  her  was  due  to  a  faith  in  her  integrity  as  well 
as  to  a  respect  for  her  as  a  breadwinner  who  had  earned  a 
right  to  independence.  And  while  her  suspicion  of  Hannah's 
anxiety  troubled  her,  on  the  occasions  when  she  thought  of  it, 
Lise's  attitude  disturbed  her  even  more.  From  Lise  she 
had  been  prepared  for  suspicion,  arraignment,  ridicule. 
What  a  vindication  if  it  were  disclosed  that  she,  Janet, 
had  a  lover  —  and  that  lover  Ditmar !  But  Lise  said 
nothing.  She  was  remote,  self-absorbed.  Hannah  spoke 
about  it  on  the  evenings  Janet  stayed  at  home. 

She  would  not  consent  to  meet  Ditmar  every  evening. 
Yet,  as  the  days  succeeded  one  another,  Janet  was  often 
astonished  by  the  fact  that  their  love  remained  apparently 
unsuspected  by  Mr.  Price  and  Caldwell  and  others  in  the 
office.  They  must  have  noticed,  on  some  occasions,  the 
manner  in  which  Ditmar  looked  at  her;  and  in  business 
hours  she  had  continually  to  caution  him,  to  keep  him  in 
check.  Again,  on  the  evening  excursions  to  which  she 
consented,  though  they  were  careful  to  meet  in  unfrequented 
spots,  someone  might  easily  have  recognized  him ;  and  she 
did  not  like  to  ponder  over  the  number  of  young  women  in 
the  other  offices  who  knew  her  by  sight.  These  reflections 
weighed  upon  her,  particularly  when  she  seemed  conscious 
of  curious  glances.  But  what  caused  her  the  most  concern 
was  the  constantly  recurring  pressure  to  which  Ditmar 
himself  subjected  her,  and  which,  as  time  went  on,  she  found 
increasingly  difficult  to  resist.  He  tried  to  take  her  by  storm, 
and  when  this  method  failed,  resorted  to  pleadings  and  sup 
plications  even  harder  to  deny  because  of  the  innate  feminine 
pity  she  felt  for  him.  To  recount  these  affairs  would  be  a 
mere  repetition  of  identical  occurrences.  On  their  second 
Sunday  excursion  he  had  actually  driven  her,  despite  her 
opposition,  several  miles  on  the  Boston  road;  and  her 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  227 

resistance  only  served  to  inflame  him  the  more.  It  seemed, 
afterwards,  as  she  sat  unnerved,  a  miracle  that  she  had 
stopped  him.  Then  came  reproaches  :  she  would  not  trust 
him ;  they  could  not  be  married  at  once ;  she  must  under 
stand  that !  —  an  argument  so  repugnant  as  to  cause  her 
to  shake  with  sobs  of  inarticulate  anger.  After  this  he 
would  grow  bewildered,  then  repentant,  then  contrite.  In 
contrition  —  had  he  known  it  —  he  was  nearest  to  victory. 

As  has  been  said,  she  did  not  intellectualize  her  reasons, 
but  the  core  of  her  resistance  was  the  very  essence  of  an 
individuality  having  its  roots  in  a  self-respecting  and  self- 
controlling  inheritance  —  an  element  wanting  in  her  sister 
Lise.  It  must  have  been  largely  the  thought  of  Lise,  the 
spectacle  of  Lise  —  often  perhaps  unconsciously  present  — 
that  dominated  her  conduct;  yet  reinforcing  such  an  an 
cestral  sentiment  was  another,  environmental  and  more 
complicated,  the  result  in  our  modern  atmosphere  of  an 
undefined  feminism  apt  to  reveal  itself  in  many  undesirable 
ways,  but  which  in  reality  is  a  logical  projection  of  the 
American  tradition  of  liberty.  To  submit  was  not  only  to 
lose  her  liberty,  to  become  a  dependent,  but  also  and  in 
evitably,  she  thought,  to  lose  Ditmar's  love.  .  .  . 

No  experience,  however,  is  emotionally  continuous,  nor 
was  their  intimacy  by  any  means  wholly  on  this  plane  of 
conflict.  There  were  hours  when,  Ditmar's  passion 
having  spent  itself,  they  achieved  comradeship,  in  the 
office  and  out  of  it;  revelations  for  Janet  when  he 
talked  of  himself,  relating  the  little  incidents  she  found 
most  illuminating.  And  thus  by  degrees  she  was  able  to 
build  up  a  new  and  truer  estimate  of  him.  For  example, 
she  began  to  perceive  that  his  life  outside  of  his  interest 
in  the  mills,  instead  of  being  the  romance  of  privileged 
joys  she  had  once  imagined,  had  been  almost  as  empty 
as  her  own,  without  either  unity  or  direction.  Her  per- 


228  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

ception  was  none  the  less  keen  [because  definite  terms 
were  wanting  for  its  expression.  The  idea  of  him  that  first 
had  captivated  her  was  that  of  an  energized  and  focussed 
character  controlling  with  a  sure  hand  the  fortunes  of  a 
great  organization;  of  a  power  in  the  city  and  state,  of  a 
being  who,  in  his  leisure  moments,  dwelt  in  a  delectable 
realm  from  which  she  was  excluded.  She  was  still  acutely 
conscious  of  his  force,  but  what  she  now  felt  was  its  lack  of 
direction  —  save  for  the  portion  that  drove  the  Chippering 
Mills.  The  rest  of  it,  like  the  river,  flowed  away  on  the  line 
of  least  resistance  to  the  sea. 

As  was  quite  natural,  this  gradual  discovery  of  what  he 
was  —  or  of  what  he  wasn't  —  this  truer  estimate,  this  par 
tial  disillusionment,  merely  served  to  deepen  and  intensify 
the  feeling  he  had  aroused  in  her;  to  heighten,  likewise, 
the  sense  of  her  own  value  by  confirming  a  belief  in  her 
possession  of  certain  qualities,  of  a  kind  of  fibre  he  needed 
in  a  helpmate.  She  dwelt  with  a  woman's  fascination  upon 
the  prospect  of  exercising  a  creative  influence  —  even  while 
she  acknowledged  the  fearful  possibility  of  his  power  in 
unguarded  moments  to  overwhelm  and  destroy  her.  Here 
was  another  incentive  to  resist  the  gusts  of  his  passion.  She 
could  guide  and  develop  him  by  helping  and  improving  her 
self.  Hope  and  ambition  throbbed  within  her,  she  felt  a 
contempt  for  his  wife,  for  the  women  who  had  been  her 
predecessors.  He  had  not  spoken  of  these,  save  once  or 
twice  by  implication,  but  with  what  may  seem  a  surprising 
leniency  she  regarded  them  as  consequences  of  a  life  lacking 
in  content.  If  only  she  could  keep  her  head,  she  might 
supply  that  content,  and  bring  him  happiness !  The  thought 
of  his  children  troubled  her  most,  but  she  was  quick  to  per 
ceive  that  he  got  nothing  from  them ;  and  even  though  it 
were  partly  his  own  fault,  she  was  inclined  to  lay  the  heavier 
blame  on  the  woman  who  had  been  their  mother.  The 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  229 

triviality,  the  emptiness  of  his  existence  outside  of  the  walls 
of  the  mill  made  her  heart  beat  with  pure  pity.  For  she  could 
understand  it. 

One  of  the  many,  and  often  humorous,  incidents  that 
served  to  bring  about  this  realization  of  a  former  aimlessness 
happened  on  their  second  Sunday  excursion.  This  time  he 
had  not  chosen  the  Kingsbury  Tavern,  but  another  auto- 
mobilists'  haunt,  an  enlightening  indication  of  established 
habits  involving  a  wide  choice  of  resorts.  'While  he  was 
paying  for  luncheon  and  chatting  with  the  proprietor, 
Ditmar  snatched  from  the  change  he  had  flung  down  on  the 
counter  a  five  dollar  gold  coin. 

"Now  how  in  thunder  did  that  get  into  my  right-hand 
pocket?  I  always  keep  it  in  my  vest,"  he  exclaimed;  and 
the  matter  continued  to  disturb  him  after  they  were  in  the 
automobile.  "It's  my  lucky  piece.  I  guess  I  was  so  ex 
cited  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  you  when  I  dressed  this  morn 
ing  I  put  it  into  my  change.  Just  see  what  you  do  to  me !" 

"Does  it  bring  you  luck?"  she  inquired  smilingly. 

"  How  about  you !  I  call  you  the  biggest  piece  of  luck 
I  ever  had." 

"You'd  better  not  be  too  sure,"  she  warned  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  worrying.  I  had  that  piece  in  my  pocket 
the  day  I  went  down  to  see  old  Stephen  Chippering,  when 
he  made  me  agent,  an4  I've  kept  it  ever  since.  And  I'll 
tell  you  a  funny  thing  —  it's  enough  to  make  any  man  be 
lieve  in  luck.  Do  you  remember  that  day  last  summer  I 
was  tinkering  with  the  car  by  the  canal  and  you  came  along  ?  " 

"The  day  you  pretended  to  be  tinkering,"  she  corrected 
him. 

He  laughed.  "  So  you  were  on  to  me  ?"  he  said.  "  You're 
a  foxy  one!" 

"Anyone  could  see  you  were  only  pretending.  It  made 
me  angry,  when  I  thought  of  it  afterwards." 


230  THE  DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT 

"  I  just  had  to  do  it  —  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you.  But 
listen  to  what  I'm  going  to  tell  you !  It's  a  miracle,  all 
right,  —  happening  just  at  that  time  —  that  very  morning. 
I  was  coming  back  to  Boston  from  New  York  on  the  mid 
night,  and  when  the  train  ran  into  Back  Bay  and  I  was 
putting  on  my  trousers  the  piece  rolled  out  among  the  bed 
clothes.  I  didn't  know  I'd  lost  it  until  I  sat  down  in  the 
Parker  House  to  eat  my  breakfast,  and  I  suddenly  felt  in 
my  pocket.  It  made  me  sick  to  think  it  was  gone.  Well, 
I  started  to  telephone  the  Pullman  office,  and  then  I  made 
up  my  mind  I'd  take  a  taxi  and  go  down  to  the  South  Station 
myself,  and  just  as  I  got  out  of  the  cab  there  was  the  nigger 
porter,  all  dressed  up  in  his  glad  rags,  coming  out  of  the 
station  I  I  knew  him,  I'd  been  on  his  car  lots  of  times. 
' Say,  George,'  I  said,  'I  didn't  forget  you  this  morning,  did 
I?' 

"' No,  suh,'  said  George,  'you  done  give  me  a  quarter/ 

"I  guess  you're  mistaken,  George,'  says  I,  and  I  fished 
out  a  ten  dollar  bill.  You  ought  to  have  seen  that  nigger's 
eyes. 

'"  What's  this  for,  Mister  Ditmar?'  says  he. 

"'For  that  lucky  gold  piece  you  found  in  lower  seven/ 
I  told  him.  'We'll  trade/ 

c '  Was  you  in  lower  seven  ?  —  so  you  was ! '  says  George. 
Well,  he  had  it  all  right  —  you  bet  he  had  it.  Now  wasn't 
that  queer?  The  very  day  you  and  I  began  to  know  each 
other!" 

"Wonderful!"  Janet  agreed.  "Why  don't  you  put  it 
on  your  watch  chain  ?  " 

"Well,  I've  thought  of  that,"  he  replied,  with  the  air  of 
having  considered  all  sides  of  the  matter.  "But  I've  got 
that  charm  of  the  secret  order  I  belong  to  —  that's  on  my 
chain.  I  guess  I'll  keep  it  in  my  vest  pocket." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  superstitious,"  she  mocked. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  231 

"Pretty  nearly  everybody's  superstitious,"  he  declared. 
And  she  thought  of  Lise, 

"I'm  not.  I  believe  if  things  are  going  to  happen  — 
well,  they're  going  to  happen.  Nothing  can  prevent  it." 

"By  thunder!"  he  exclaimed,  struck  by  her  remark. 
"You  are  like  that!  You're  different  from  any  person  I 
ever  knew.  .  .  ." 

From  such  anecdotes  she  pieced  together  her  new  Ditmar. 
He  spoke  of  a  large  world  she  had  never  seen,  of  New  York 
and  Washington  and  Chicago,  where  he  intended  to  take 
her.  In  the  future  he  would  never  travel  alone.  And  he 
told  her  of  his  having  been  a  delegate  to  the  last  National 
Republican  Convention,  explaining  what  a  delegate  was. 
He  gloried  in  her  innocence,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  dazzle 
her  with  impressions  of  his  cosmopolitanism.  In  this, 
perhaps,  he  was  not  quite  so  successful  as  he  imagined, 
but  her  eyes  shone.  She  had  never  even  been  in  a  sleeping 
car !  For  her  delectation  he  launched  into  an  enthusiastic 
description  of  these  vehicles,  of  palatial  compartment  cars, 
of  limited,  transcontinental  trains,  where  one  had  a  stenog 
rapher  and  a  barber  at  one's  disposal. 

"Neither  of  them  would  do  me  any  good,"  she  complained. 

"You  could  go  to  the  manicure,"  he  said. 


There  had  been  in  Ditmar's  life  certain  events  which, 
in  his  anecdotal  moods,  were  magnified  into  matters  of 
climacteric  importance;  high,  festal  occasions  on  which 
it  was  sweet  to  reminisce,  such  as  his  visit  as  Delegate  at 
Large  to  that  Chicago  Convention.  He  had  travelled  on  a 
special  train  stocked  with  cigars  and  White  Seal  champagne, 
in  the  company  of  senators  and  congressmen  and  ex-gover 
nors,  state  treasurers,  collectors  of  the  port,  mill  owners,  and 
bankers  to  whom  he  referred,  as  the  French  say,  in  terms  of 


232  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

their  "little"  names.  He  dwelt  on  the  magnificence  of  the 
huge  hotel  set  on  the  borders  of  a  lake  like  an  inland  sea, 
and  related  such  portions  of  the  festivities  incidental  to 
"the  seeing  of  Chicago"  as  would  bear  repetition.  No 
women  belonged  to  this  realm;  no  women,  at  least,  who 
were  to  be  regarded  as  persons.  Ditmar  did  not  mention 
them,  but  no  doubt  they  existed,  along  with  the  cigars  and 
the  White  Seal  champagne,  contributing  to  the  amenities. 
And  the  excursion,  to  Janet,  took  on  the  complexion  of  a 
sort  of  glorified  picnic  in  the  course  of  which,  incidentally, 
a  President  of  the  United  States  had  been  chosen.  In  her 
innocence  she  had  believed  the  voters  to  perform  this  func 
tion.  Ditmar  laughed. 

'  "Do  you  suppose  we're  going  to  let  the  mob  run  this 
country?"  he  inquired.  "Once  in  a  while  we  can't  get 
away  with  it  as  we'd  like,  we  have  to  take  the  best 
we  can." 

Thus  was  brought  home  to  her  more  and  more  clearly 
that  what  men  strove  and  fought  for  were  the  joys  of 
prominence,  privilege,  and  power.  Everywhere,  in  the  great 
world,  they  demanded  and  received  consideration.  It  was 
Ditmar's  boast  that  if  nobody  else  could  get  a  room  in  a 
crowded  New  York  hotel,  he  could  always  obtain  one.  And 
she  was  fain  to  concede  —  she  who  had  never  known  privilege 
—  a  certain  intoxicating  quality  to  this  eminence.  If  you 
could  get  the  power,  and  refused  to  take  it,  the  more  fool 
you !  A  topsy-turvy  world,  in  which  the  stupid  toiled  day 
by  day,  week  by  week,  exhausting  their  energies  and  crav 
ing  joy,  while  others  adroitly  carried  off  the  prize;  and 
virtue  had  apparently  as  little  to  do  with  the  matter  as 
fair  hair  or  a  club  foot.  If  Janet  had  ever  read  Darwin, 
she  would  have  recognized  in  her  lover  a  creature  rather 
wonderfully  adapted  to  his  environment ;  and  what  puzzled 
her,  perhaps,  was  the  riddle  that  presents  itself  to  many 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  233 

better  informed  than  herself  —  the  utter  absence  in  this 
environment  of  the  sign  of  any  being  who  might  be  called 
God.  Her  perplexities  —  for  she  did  have  them  —  took 
the  form  of  an  instinctive  sense  of  inadequacy,  of  persistently 
recurring  though  inarticulate  convictions  of  the  existence 
of  elements  not  included  in  Ditmar's  categories  —  of  things 
that  money  could  not  buy ;  of  things,  too,  alas !  that  pov 
erty  was  as  powerless  to  grasp.  Stored  within  her,  some 
times  rising  to  the  level  of  consciousness,  was  that  expe 
rience  at  Silliston  in  the  May  weather  when  she  had  had  a 
glimpse  —  just  a  glimpse!  —  of  a  garden  where  strange 
and  precious  flowers  were  in  bloom.  On  the  other  hand, 
this  mysterious  perception  by  her  of  things  unseen  and 
hitherto  unguessed,  of  rays  of  delight  in  the  spectrum  of 
values  to  which  his  senses  were  unattuned,  was  for  Ditmar 
the  supreme  essence  of  her  fascination.  At  moments  he 
was  at  once  bewildered  and  inebriated  by  the  rare  delicacy 
of  fabric  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  somehow  stumbled 
upon  and  possessed. 

Then  there  were  the  hours  wrhen  they  worked  together  in 
the  office.  Here  she  beheld  Ditmar  at  his  best.  It  cannot 
be  said  that  his  infatuation  for  her  was  ever  absent  from 
his  consciousness :  he  knew  she  was  there  beside  him,  he 
betrayed  it  continually.  But  here  she  was  in  the  presence 
of  what  had  been  and  what  remained  his  ideal,  the  Chipper- 
ing  Mill;  here  he  acquired  unity.  All  his  energies  were 
bent  toward  the  successful  execution  of  the  Bradlaugh 
order,  which  had  to  be  completed  on  the  first  of  February. 
And  as  day  after  day  went  by  her  realization  of  the  mag 
nitude  of  the  task  he  had  undertaken  became  keener.  Ex 
citement  was  in  the  air.  Ditmar  seemed  somehow  to  have 
managed  to  infuse  not  only  Orcutt,  the  superintendent,  but 
the  foremen  and  second  hands  and  even  the  workers  with  a 
common  spirit  of  pride  and  loyalty,  of  interest,  of  deter- 


234  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

mination  to  carry  off  this  matter  triumphantly.  The  mill 
seemed  fairly  to  hum  with  effort.  Janet's  increasing  knowl 
edge  of  its  organization  and  processes  only  served  to  heighten 
her  admiration  for  the  confidence  Ditmar  had  shown  from 
the  beginning.  It  was  superb.  And  now,  as  the  probability 
of  the  successful  execution  of  the  task  tended  more  and  more 
toward  certainty,  he  sometimes  gave  vent  to  his  boyish, 
exuberant  spirits. 

"  I  told  Holster,  I  told  all  those  croakers  I'd  do  it,  and  by 
thunder  I  will  do  it,  with  three  days'  margin,  too  I  I'll 
get  the  last  shipment  off  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  January. 
Why,  even  George  Chippering  was  afraid  I  couldn't  handle 
it.  If  the  old  man  was  alive  he  wouldn't  have  had  cold 
feet."  Then  Ditmar  added,  half  jocularly,  half  seriously, 
looking  down  on  her  as  she  sat  with  her  note-book,  waiting 
for  him  to  go  on  with  his  dictation :  "  I  guess  you've  had 
your  share  in  it,  too.  You've  been  a  wonder,  the  way  you've 
caught  on  and  taken  things  off  my  shoulders.  If  Orcutt 
died  I  believe  you  could  step  right  into  his  shoes." 

"  I'm  sure  I  could  step  into  his  shoes,"  she  replied.  "  Only 
I  hope  he  won't  die." 

"I  hope  he  won't,  either,"  said  Ditmar.  "And  as  for 
you- 

"  Never  mind  me,  now,"  she  said. 

He  bent  over  her. 

"Janet,  you're  the  greatest  girl  in  the  world." 

Yes,  she  was  happiest  when  she  felt  she  was  helping 
him,  it  gave  her  confidence  that  she  could  do  more,  lead 
him  into  paths  beyond  which  they  might  explore  together. 
She  was  useful.  Sometimes,  however,  he  seemed  to  her 
oversanguine ;  though  he  had  worked  hard,  his  success  had 
come  too  easily,  had  been  too  uniform.  His  temper  was 
quick,  the  prospect  of  opposition  often  made  him  over 
bearing,  yet  on  occasions  he  listened  with  surprising 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  235 

patience  to  his  subordinates  when  they  ventured  to  differ 
from  his  opinions.  At  other  times  Janet  had  seen  him 
overrule  them  ruthlessly,  humiliate  them.  There  were 
days  when  things  went  wrong,  when  there  were  delays, 
complications,  more  matters  to  attend  to  than  usual.  On 
one  such  day,  after  the  dinner  hour,  Mr.  Orcutt  entered  the 
office.  His  long,  lean  face  wore  a  certain  expression  Janet 
had  come  to  know,  an  expression  that  always  irritated 
Ditmar  —  the  conscientious  superintendent  having  the  un 
fortunate  faculty  of  exaggerating  annoyances  by  his  very 
bearing.  Ditmar  stopped  in  the  midst  of  dictating  a  pecul 
iarly  difficult  letter,  and  looked  up  sharply. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "what's  the  trouble  now?" 

Orcutt  seemed  incapable  of  reading  storm  signals.  When 
anything  happened,  he  had  the  air  of  declaring,  "I  told  you 
so." 

"You  may  remember  I  spoke  to  you  once  or  twice,  Mr.  Dit 
mar,  of  the  talk  over  the  fifty-four  hour  law  that  goes  into 
effect  in  January." 

"Yes,  what  of  it?"  Ditmar  cut  in.  "The  notices  have 
been  posted,  as  the  law  requires." 

"  The  hands  have  been  grumbling,  there  are  trouble  makers 
among  them.  A  delegation  came  to  me  this  noon  and  wanted 
to  know  whether  we  intended  to  cut  the  pay  to  correspond 
to  the  shorter  working  hours." 

"Of  course  it's  going  to  be  cut,"  said  Ditmar.  "What 
do  they  suppose?  That  we're  going  to  pay  'em  for  work 
they  don't  do?  The  hands  not  paid  by  the  piece  are  paid 
practically  by  the  hour,  not  by  the  day.  And  there's  got 
to  be  some  limit  to  this  thing.  If  these  damned  dema 
gogues  in  the  legislature  keep  on  cutting  down  the  hours 
of  women  and  children  every  three  years  or  so  —  and  we 
can't  run  the  mill  without  the  women  and  children  —  we 
might  as  well  shut  down  right  now.  Three  years  ago, 


236  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

when  they  made  it  fifty-six  hours,  we  were  fools  to  keep  up 
the  pay.  I  said  so  then,  at  the  conference,  but  they  wouldn't 
listen  to  me.  They  listened  this  time.  Holster  and  one  or 
two  others  croaked,  but  we  shut  'em  up.  No,  they  won't 
get  any  more  pay,  not  a  damned  cent." 

Orcutt  had  listened  patiently,  lugubriously. 

"I  told  them  that." 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"They  said  they  thought  there'd  be  a  strike." 

"Pooh!  Strike!"  exclaimed  Ditmar  with  contemptuous 
violence.  "Do  you  believe  that?  You're  always  borrow 
ing  trouble,  you  are.  They  may  have  a  strike  at  one  mill, 
the  Clarendon.  I  hope  they  do,  I  hope  Holster  gets  it  in 
the  neck  —  he  don't  know  how  to  run  a  mill  anyway.  We 
won't  have  any  strike,  our  people  understand  when  they're 
well  off,  they've  got  all  the  work  they  can  do,  they're  sending 
fortunes  back  to  the  old  country  or  piling  them  up  in  the 
banks.  It's  all  bluff." 

"There  was  a  meeting  of  the  English  branch  of  the  I. 
W.  W.  last  night.  A  committee  was  appointed,"  said 
Orcutt,  who  as  usual  took  a  gloomy  satisfaction  in  the  pros 
pect  of  disaster. 

"The  I.  W.  W.!  My  God,  Orcutt,  don't  you  know 
enough  not  to  come  in  here  wasting  my  time  talking  about 
the  I.  W.  W.  ?  Those  anarchists  haven't  got  any  organiza 
tion.  Can't  you  get  that  through  your  head  ?  " 

"All  right,"  replied  Orcutt,  and  marched  off.  Janet  felt 
rather  sorry  for  him,  though  she  had  to  admit  that  his 
manner  was  exasperating.  But  Ditmar's  anger,  instead 
of  cooling,  increased:  it  all  seemed  directed  against  the 
unfortunate  superintendent. 

"Would  you  believe  that  a  man  who's  been  in  this  mill 
twenty-five  years  could  be  such  a  fool?"  he  demanded. 
"The  I.  W.  W. !  Why  not  the  Ku  Klux?  He  must  think 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  237 

I  haven't  anything  to  do  but  chin.  I  don't  know  why  I 
keep  him  here,  sometimes  I  think  he'll  drive  me  crazy." 

His  eyes  seemed  to  have  grown  small  and  red,  as  was 
always  the  case  when  his  temper  got  the  better  of  him. 
Janet  did  not  reply,  but  sat  with  her  pencil  poised  over  her 
book. 

"Let's  see,  where  was  I?"  he  asked.  "I  can't  finish 
that  letter  now.  Go  out  and  do  the  others." 


Mundane  experience,  like  a  badly  mixed  cake,  has  a 
tendency  to  run  in  streaks,  and  on  the  day  following  the 
incident  related  above  Janet's  heart  was  heavy.  Ditmar 
betrayed  an  increased  shortness  of  temper  and  preoccupa 
tion;  and  the  consciousness  that  her  love  had  lent  her  a 
clairvoyant  power  to  trace  the  source  of  his  humours  — 
though  these  were  often  hidden  from  or  unacknowledged 
by  himself  —  was  in  this  instance  small  consolation.  She 
saw  clearly  enough  that  the  apprehensions  expressed  by 
Mr.  Orcutt,  whom  he  had  since  denounced  as  an  idiotic 
old  woman,  had  made  an  impression,  aroused  in  him  the 
ever-abiding  concern  for  the  mill  which  was  his  life's  passion 
and  which  had  been  but  temporarily  displaced  by  his  in 
fatuation  with  her.  That  other  passion  was  paramount. 
\Yhat  was  she  beside  it?  Would  he  hesitate  for  a  moment 
to  sacrifice  her  if  it  came  to  a  choice  between  them?  The 
tempestuousness  of  these  thoughts,  when  they  took  posses 
sion  of  her,  hinting  as  they  did  of  possibilities  in  her  nature 
hitherto  unguessed  and  unrevealed,  astonished  and  frightened 
her;  she  sought  to  thrust  them  away,  to  reassure  herself 
that  his  concern  for  the  successful  delivery  of  the  Bradlaugh 
order  was  natural.  During  the  morning,  in  the  intervals 
between  interviews  with  the  superintendents,  he  was  self- 


238  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

absorbed,  and  she  found  herself  inconsistently  resenting  the 
absence  of  those  expressions  of  endearment  —  the  glances 
and  stolen  caresses  —  for  indulgence  in  which  she  had 
hitherto  rebuked  him  :  and  though  pride  came  to  her  rescue, 
fuel  was  added  to  her  feeling  by  the  fact  that  he  did  not 
seem  to  notice  her  coolness.  Since  he  failed  to  appear 
after  lunch,  she  knew  he  must  be  investigating  the  suspicions 
Orcutt  had  voiced;  but  at  six  o'clock,  when  he  had  not 
returned,  she  closed  up  her  desk  and  left  the  office.  An 
odour  of  cheap  perfume  pervading  the  corridor  made  her 
aware  of  the  presence  of  Miss  Lottie  Myers. 

"Oh,  it's  you!"  said  that  young  woman,  looking  up 
from  the  landing  of  the  stairs.  "I  might  have  known  it  — 
you  never  make  a  get-away  until  after  six,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  sometimes,"  said  Janet. 

"I  stayed  as  a  special  favour  to-night,"  Miss  Myers 
declared.  "But  I'm  not  so  stuck  on  my  job  that  I  can't 
tear  myself  away  from  it." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  are,"  said  Janet. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Myers  looked  as  if  she  was  about 
to  be  still  more  impudent,  but  her  eye  met  Janet's,  and 
wavered.  They  crossed  the  bridge  in  silence.  "Well, 
ta-ta,"  she  said.  "If  you  like  it,  it's  up  to  you.  Five 
o'clock  for  mine,"  —  and  walked  away,  up  the  canal,  swing 
ing  her  hips  defiantly.  And  Janet,  gazing  after  her,  grew 
hot  with  indignation  and  apprehension.  Her  relations 
with  Ditmar  were  suspected,  after  all,  made  the  subject 
of  the  kind  of  comment  indulged  in,  sotto  wee,  by  Lottie 
Myers  and  her  friends  at  the  luncheon  hour.  She  felt  a 
mad,  primitive  desire  to  run  after  the  girl,  to  spring  upon 
and  strangle  her  and  compel  her  to  speak  what  was  in  her 
mind  and  then  retract  it ;  and  the  motor  impulse,  inhibited, 
caused  a  sensation  of  sickness,  of  unhappiness  and  degrada 
tion  as  she  turned  her  steps  slowly  homeward.  Was  it  a 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  239 

misinterpretation,  after  all  —  what  Lottie  Myers  had  im 
plied  and  feared  to  say  ?  .  .  . 

In  Fillmore  Street  supper  was  over,  and  Lise,  her  face 
contorted,  her  body  strained,  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
bureau  "doing"  her  hair,  her  glance  now  seeking  the  mirror, 
now  falling  again  to  consult  a  model  in  one  of  those  peri 
odicals  of  froth  and  fashion  that  cause  such  numberless 
heart  burnings  in  every  quarter  of  our  democracy,  and  which 
are  filled  with  photographs  of  "prominent"  persons  at 
race  meetings,  horse  shows,  and  resorts,  and  with  actresses, 
dancers,  —  and  mannequins.  Janet's  eyes  fell  on  the  open 
page  to  perceive  that  the  coiffure  her  sister  so  painfully  imi 
tated  was  worn  by  a  young  woman  with  an  insolent,  vapid 
face  and  hard  eyes,  whose  knees  were  crossed,  revealing  con 
siderably  more  than  an  ankle.  The  picture  was  labelled, 
"A  dance  at  Palm  Beach  —  A  flashlight  of  Mrs.  'Trudy' 
Gascoigne-Schell,"  —  one  of  those  mysterious,  hybrid  names 
which,  in  connection  with  the  thoughts  of  New  York  and  the 
visible  rakish  image  of  the  lady  herself,  cause  involuntary 
shudders  down  the  spine  of  the  reflecting  American  pro 
vincial.  Some  such  responsive  quiver,  akin  to  disgust,  Janet 
herself  experienced. 

"It's  the  very  last  scream,"  Lise  was  saying.  "And 
say,  if  I  owned  a  ball  dress  like  that  I'd  be  somebody's 
Lulu  all  right !  Can  I  have  the  pleasure  of  the  next  maxixe, 
Miss  Bumpus?"  With  deft  and  rapid  fingers  she  had 
parted  her  hair  far  on  the  right  side  and  pulled  it  down 
over  the  left  eyebrow,  twisted  it  over  her  ear  and  tightly 
around  her  head,  inserting  here  and  there  a  hairpin,  seizing 
the  hand  mirror  with  the  cracked  back,  and  holding  it  up 
behind  her.  Finally,  when  the  operation  was  finished  to 
her  satisfaction  she  exclaimed,  evidently  to  the  paragon  in 
the  picture,  "I  get  you!"  Whereupon,  from  the  ward 
robe,  she  produced  a  hat.  "You  sure  had  my  number 


240  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

when  you  guessed  the  feathers  on  that  other  would  get 
draggled/7  she  observed  in  high  good  humour,  generously 
ignoring  their  former  unpleasantness  on  the  subject.  When 
she  had  pinned  it  on  she  bent  mockingly  over  her  sister, 
who  sat  on  the  bed.  "How  d'you  like  my  new  toque? 
Peekaboo !  That's  the  way  the  guys  rubberneck  to  see  if 
you're  good  lookin'." 

Lise  was  exalted,  feverish,  apparently  possessed  by  some 
high  secret ;  her  eyes  shone,  and  when  she  crossed  the  room 
she  whistled  bars  of  ragtime  and  executed  mincing  steps  of 
the  maxixe.  Fumbling  in  the  upper  drawer  for  a  pair  of 
white  gloves  (also  new),  she  knocked  off  the  corner  of  the 
bureau  her  velvet  bag;  it  opened  as  it  struck  the  floor, 
and  out  of  it  rolled  a  lilac  vanity  case  and  a  yellow  coin. 
Casting  a  suspicious,  lightning  glance  at  Janet,  she  snatched 
up  the  vanity  case  and  covered  the  coin  with  her  foot. 

"Lock  the  doors!"  she  cried,  with  an  hysteric  giggle. 
Then  removing  her  foot  she  picked  up  the  coin  surrepti 
tiously.  To  her  amazement  her  sister  made  no  comment, 
did  not  seem  to  have  taken  in  the  significance  of  the  episode. 
Lise  had  expected  a  tempest  of  indignant,  searching  ques 
tions,  a  "third  degree,"  as  she  would  have  put  it.  She 
snapped  the  bag  together,  drew  on  her  gloves,  and,  when 
she  was  ready  to  leave,  with  characteristic  audacity  crossed 
the  room,  taking  her  sister's  face  between  her  hands  and 
kissing  her. 

"Tell  me  your  troubles,  sweetheart!"  she  said  —  and 
did  not  wait  to  hear  them. 

Janet  was  incapable  of  speech  —  nor  could  she  have 
brought  herself  to  ask  Lise  whether  or  not  the  money  had 
been  earned  at  the  Bagatelle,  and  remained  miraculously 
unspent.  It  was  possible,  but  highly  incredible.  And  then, 
the  vanity  case  and  the  new  hat  were  to  be  accounted  for ! 
The  sight  of  the  gold  piece,  indeed,  had  suddenly  revived 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  241 

in  Janet  the  queer  feeling  of  faintness,  almost  of  nausea 
she  had  experienced  after  parting  with  Lottie  Myers.  And 
by  some  untoward  association  she  was  reminded  of  a  conver 
sation  she  had  had  with  Ditmar  on  the  Saturday  afternoon 
following  their  first  Sunday  excursion,  when,  on  opening 
her  pay  envelope,  she  had  found  twenty  dollars. 

"Are  you  sure  I'm  worth  it?"  she  had  demanded  —  and 
he  had  been  quite  sure.  He  had  added  that  she  was  worth 
more,  much  more,  but  that  he  could  not  give  her  as  yet, 
without  the  risk  of  comment,  a  sum  commensurate  with 
the  value  of  her  services.  .  .  .  But  now  she  asked  her 
self  again,  was  she  worth  it  ?  or  was  it  merely  —  part  of 
her  price  ?  Going  to  the  wardrobe  and  opening  a  drawer  at 
the  bottom  she  searched  among  her  clothes  until  she  dis 
covered  the  piece  of  tissue  paper  in  which  she  had  wrapped 
the  rose  rescued  from  the  cluster  he  had  given  her.  The 
petals  were  dry,  yet  they  gave  forth,  still,  a  faint,  reminiscent 
fragrance  as  she  pressed  them  to  her  face.  Janet  wept.  .  .  . 


The  following  morning  as  she  was  kneeling  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  by  the  letter  files,  one  of  which  she  had  placed 
on  the  floor,  she  recognized  his  step  in  the  outer  office, 
heard  him  pause  to  joke  with  young  Caldwell,  and  needed 
not  the  visual  proof  —  when  after  a  moment  he  halted  on 
the  threshold  —  of  the  fact  that  his  usual,  buoyant  spirits 
were  restored.  He  held  a  cigar  in  his  hand,  and  in  his  eyes 
was  the  eager  look  with  which  she  had  become  familiar, 
which  indeed  she  had  learned  to  anticipate  as  they  swept 
the  room  in  search  of  her.  And  when  they  fell  on  her  he 
closed  the  door  and  came  forward  impetuously.  But  her 
exclamation  caused  him  to  halt  in  bewilderment. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !"  she  said. 

And  he  stammered  out,  as  he  stood  over  her :  — 


242  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Everything.  You  don't  love  me  —  I  was  a  fool  to  be 
lieve  you  did." 

"Don't  love  you!"  he  repeated.  "My  God,  what's  the 
trouble  now  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  you've  done,  it's  what  you  haven't 
done,  it's  what  you  can't  do.  You  don't  really  care  for 
me  —  all  you  care  for  is  this  mill  —  when  anything  happens 
here  you  don't  know  I'm  alive." 

He  stared  at  her,  and  then  an  expression  of  comprehen 
sion,  of  intense  desire  grew  in  his  eyes;  and  his  laugh,  as 
he  flung  his  cigar  out  of  the  open  window  and  bent  down 
to  seize  her,  was  almost  brutal.  She  fought  him,  she  tried 
to  hurt  him,  and  suddenly,  convulsively  pressed  herself  to 
him. 

"You  little  tigress!"  he  said,  as  he  held  her.  "You 
were  jealous  —  were  you  —  jealous  of  the  mill?"  And  he 
laughed  again.  "I'd  like  to  see  you  with  something  really 
to  be  jealous  about.  So  you  love  me  like  that,  do  you  ?  " 

She  could  feel  his  heart  beating  against  her. 

"I  won't  be  neglected,"  she  told  him  tensely.  "I  want 
all  of  you  —  if  I  can't  have  all  of  you,  I  don't  want  any. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"  Do  I  understand  ?     Well,  I  guess  I  do." 

"You  didn't  yesterday,"  she  reproached  him,  somewhat 
dazed  by  the  swiftness  of  her  submission,  and  feeling  still 
the  traces  of  a  lingering  resentment.  She  had  not  intended 
to  surrender.  "You  forgot  all  about  me,  you  didn't  know  I 
was  here,  much  less  that  I  was  hurt.  Oh,  I  was  hurt !  And 
you  —  I  can  tell  at  once  when  anything's  wrong  with  you 
—  I  know  without  your  saying  it." 

He  was  amazed,  he  might  indeed  have  been  troubled  and 
even  alarmed  by  this  passion  he  had  aroused  had  his  own 
passion  not  been  at  the  flood.  And  as  he  wiped  away  her 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  243 

tears  with  his  handkerchief  he  could  scarcely  believe  his 
senses  that  this  was  the  woman  whose  resistance  had  de 
manded  all  his  force  to  overcome.  Indeed,  although  he 
recognized  the  symptoms  she  betrayed  as  feminine,  as 
having  been  registered  —  though  feebly  compared  to  this  !  — 
by  incidents  in  his  past,  precisely  his  difficulty  seemed  to 
be  in  identifying  this  complex  and  galvanic  being  as  a  woman, 
not  as  something  almost  fearful  in  her  significance,  out 
side  the  bounds  of  experience.  .  .  . 

Presently  she  ceased  to  tremble,  and  he  drew  her  to  the 
window.  The  day  was  as  mild  as  autumn,  the  winter  sun 
like  honey  in  its  mellowness ;  a  soft  haze  blurred  the  outline 
of  the  upper  bridge. 

"Only  two  more  days  until  Sunday,"  he  whispered,  caress 
ingly,  exultantly.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XII 
1 

IT  had  been  a  strange  year  in  Hampton,  unfortunate  for 
coal  merchants,  welcome  to  the  poor.  But  Sunday  lacked 
the  transforming  touch  of  sunshine.  The  weather  was 
damp  and  cold  as  Janet  set  out  from  Fillmore  Street. 
Ditmar,  she  knew,  would  be  waiting  for  her,  he  counted  on 
her,  and  she  could  not  bear  to  disappoint  him,  to  disappoint 
herself.  And  all  the  doubts  and  fears  that  from  time  to 
time  had  assailed  her  were  banished  by  this  impulse  to  go 
to  him,  to  be  with  him.  He  loved  her !  The  words,  as  she 
sat  in  the  trolley  car,  ran  in  her  head  like  the  lilt  of  a  song. 
What  did  the  weather  matter? 

When  she  alighted  at  the  lonely  cross-roads  snow  had 
already  begun  to  fall.  But  she  spied  the  automobile,  with 
its  top  raised,  some  distance  down  the  lane,  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  in  it,  beside  him,  wrapped  in  the  coat  she  had  now 
come  to  regard  as  her  own.  He  buttoned  down  the  curtains 
and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"What  shall  we  do  to-day,"  she  asked,  "if  it  snows?" 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,  sweetheart,"  he  said.  "I 
have  the  chains  on,  I  can  get  through  anything  in  this  car." 

He  was  in  high,  almost  turbulent  spirits  as  he  turned  the 
car  and  drove  it  out  of  the  rutty  lane  into  the  state  road. 
The  snow  grew  thicker  and  thicker  still,  the  world  was  blotted 
out  by  swiftly  whirling,  feathery  flakes  that  melted  on  the 
windshield,  and  through  the  wet  glass  Janet  caught  distorted 
glimpses  of  black  pines  and  cedars  beside  the  highway. 

244 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  245 

The  ground  was  spread  with  fleece.  Occasionally,  and  with 
startling  suddenness,  other  automobiles  shot  like  dark  phan 
toms  out  of  the  whiteness,  and  like  phantoms  disappeared. 
Presently,  through  the  veil,  she  recognized  Silliston  —  a 
very  different  Silliston  from  that  she  had  visited  on  the  fra 
grant  day  in  springtime,  when  the  green  on  the  common 
had  been  embroidered  with  dandelions,  and  the  great  elms  — 
whose  bare  branches  were  now  fantastically  traced  against 
the  flowing  veil  of  white  —  heavy  with  leaf.  Vignettes 
emerged  —  only  to  fade !  —  of  the  old-world  houses  whose 
quaint  beauty  had  fascinated  and  moved  her.  And  she 
found  herself  wondering  what  had  become  of  the  strange 
man  she  had  mistaken  for  a  carpenter.  All  that  seemed  to 
have  taken  place  in  a  past  life.  She  asked  Ditmar  where  he 
was  going. 

"Boston,"  he  told  her.     "There's  no  other  place  to  go." 

"But  you'll  never  get  back  if  it  goes  on  snowing  like  this." 

"Well,  the  trains  are  still  running,"  he  assured  her,  with  a 

quizzical  smile.     "How  about  it,   little  girl?"     It  was  a 

term  of  endearment  derived,  undoubtedly,  from  a  theatrical 

source,  in  which  he  sometimes  indulged. 

She  did  not  answer.  Surprisingly,  to-day,  she  did  not 
care.  All  she  could  think  of,  all  she  wanted  was  to  go  on 
and  on  beside  him  with  the  world  shut  out  —  on  and  on 
forever.  She  was  his  —  what  did  it  matter  ?  They  were  on 
their  way  to  Boston !  She  began,  dreamily,  to  think  about 
Boston,  to  try  to  restore  it  in  her  imagination  to  the  exalted 
place  it  had  held  before  she  met  Ditmar;  to  reconstruct 
it  from  vague  memories  of  childhood  when,  in  two  of  the 
family  peregrinations,  she  had  crossed  it.  Traces  remained 
of  emotionally-toned  impressions  acquired  when  she  had 
walked  about  the  city  holding  Edward's  hand — of  a  long  row 
of  stately  houses  with  forbidding  fronts,  set  on  a  hillside,  of 
a  wide,  tree-covered  space  where  children  were  playing. 


246  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

And  her  childish  verdict,  persisting  to-day,  was  one  of 
inaccessibility,  impenetrability,  of  jealously  guarded  wealth 
and  beauty.  Those  houses,  and  the  treasures  she  was 
convinced  they  must  contain,  were  not  for  her !  Some  of 
the  panes  of  glass  in  their  windows  were  purple  —  she 
remembered  a  little  thing  like  that,  and  asking  her  father 
the  reason  !  He  hadn't  known.  This  purple  quality  had 
somehow  steeped  itself  into  her  memory  of  Boston,  and 
even  now  the  colour  stood  for  the  word,  impenetrable.  That 
was  extraordinary.  Even  now !  Well,  they  were  going  to 
Boston ;  if  Ditmar  had  said  they  were  going  to  Bagdad  it 
would  have  been  quite  as  credible  —  and  incredible.  Wher 
ever  they  were  going,  it  was  into  the  larger,  larger  life,  and 
walls  were  to  crumble  before  them,  walls  through  which  they 
would  pass,  even  as  they  rent  the  white  veil  of  the  storm, 
into  regions  of  beauty.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  world  seemed  abandoned  to  them  alone,  so 
empty,  so  still  were  the  white  villages  flitting  by ;  so  empty, 
so  still  the  great  parkway  of  the  Fells  stretching  away  and 
away  like  an  enchanted  forest  under  the  snow,  like  the  domain 
of  some  sleeping  king.  And  the  flakes  melted  silently  into 
the  black  waters.  And  the  wide  avenue  to  which  they  came 
led  to  a  sleeping  palace  !  No,  it  was  a  city,  Somerville,  Ditmar 
told  her,  as  they  twisted  in  and  out  of  streets,  past  stores, 
churches  and  fire-engine  houses,  breasted  the  heights, 
descended  steeply  on  the  far  side  into  Cambridge,  and  crossed 
the  long  bridge  over  the  Charles.  And  here  at  last  was 
Boston  —  Beacon  Street,  the  heart  or  funnel  of  it,  as  one 
chose.  Ditmar,  removing  one  of  the  side  curtains  that  she 
might  see,  with  just  a  hint  in  his  voice  of  a  reverence  she 
was  too  excited  to  notice,  pointed  out  the  stern  and  respect 
able  fa£ades  of  the  twin  Chippering  mansions  standing  side 
by  side.  Save  for  these  shrines  —  for  such  in  some  sort 
they  were  to  him  —  the  Back  Bay  in  his  eyes  was  nothing 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  247 

more  than  a  collection  of  houses  inhabited  by  people  whom 
money  and  social  position  made  unassailable.  But  to-day 
he,  too,  was  excited.  Never  had  he  been  more  keenly  aware 
of  her  sensitiveness  to  experience;  and  he  to  whom  it  had 
not  occurred  to  wonder  at  Boston  wondered  at  her,  who 
seemed  able  to  summon  forth  a  presiding,  brooding  spirit  of 
the  place  from  out  of  the  snow.  Deep  in  her  eyes,  though  they 
sparkled,  was  the  reflection  of  some  mystic  vision ;  her  cheeks 
were  flushed.  And  in  her  delight,  vicariously  his  own,  he 
rejoiced ;  in  his  trembling  hope  of  more  delight  to  come,  — 
which  this  mentorship  would  enhance,  —  despite  the  fast 
deepening  snow  he  drove  her  up  one  side  of  Commonwealth 
Avenue  and  down  the  other,  encircling  the  Common  and  the 
Public  Garden ;  stopping  at  the  top  of  Park  Street  that  she 
might  gaze  up  at  the  State  House,  whose  golden  dome,  seen 
through  the  veil,  was  tinged  with  blue.  Boston  !  Why  not 
Russia?  Janet  was  speechless  for  sheer  lack  of  words  to 
describe  what  she  felt.  .  .  . 

At  length  he  brought  the  car  to  a  halt  opposite  an  imposing 
doorway  in  front  of  which  a  glass  roof  extended  over  the 
pavement,  and  Janet  demanded  where  they  were. 

"Well,  we've  got  to  eat,  haven't  we?"  Ditmar  replied. 
She  noticed  that  he  was  shivering. 

"Are  you  cold?"  she  inquired  with  concern. 

"I  guess  I  am,  a  little,"  he  replied.  "I  don't  know  why 
I  should  be,  in  a  fur  coat.  But  I'll  be  warm  soon  enough, 
now." 

A  man  in  blue  livery  hurried  toward  them  across  the  side 
walk,  helping  them  to  alight.  And  Ditmar,  after  driving 
the  car  a  few  paces  beyond  the  entrance,  led  her  through  the 
revolving  doors  into  a  long  corridor,  paved  with  marble  and 
lighted  by  bulbs  glowing  from  the  ceiling,  where  benches  were 
set  against  the  wall,  overspread  by  the  leaves  of  potted 
plants  set  in  the  intervals  between  them. 


248  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Sit  down  a  moment,"  he  said  to  her.  "I  must  telephone 
to  have  somebody  take  that  car,  or  it'll  stay  there  the  rest  of 
the  winter." 

She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches.  The  soft  light, 
the  warmth,  the  exotic  odour  of  the  plants,  the  well-dressed 
people  who  trod  softly  the  strip  of  carpet  set  on  the  marble 
with  the  air  of  being  at  home  —  all  contributed  to  an  excite 
ment,  intense  yet  benumbing.  She  could  not  think.  She 
didn't  want  to  think  —  only  to  feel,  to  enjoy,  to  wring  the 
utmost  flavour  of  enchantment  from  these  new  surroundings ; 
and  her  face  wore  the  expression  of  one  in  a  dream. 
Presently  she  saw  Ditmar  returning  followed  by  a  boy  in  a 
blue  uniform. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor  was  an 
elevator  in  which  they  were  shot  to  one  of  the  upper  floors ; 
and  the  boy,  inserting  a  key  in  a  heavy  mahogany  door, 
revealed  a  sitting-room.  Between  its  windows  was  a  table 
covered  with  a  long,  white  cloth  reaching  to  the  floor,  on  which, 
amidst  the  silverware  and  glass,  was  set  a  tall  vase  filled 
with  dusky  roses.  Janet,  drawing  in  a  deep  breath  of  their 
fragrance,  glanced  around  the  room.  The  hangings,  the 
wall-paper,  the  carpet,  the  velvet  upholstery  of  the  mahogany 
chairs,  of  the  wide  lounge  in  the  corner  were  of  a  deep  and 
restful  green ;  the  marble  mantelpiece,  with  its  English  coal 
grate,  was  copied  —  had  she  known  it  —  from  a  mansion  of 
the  Georgian  period.  The  hands  of  a  delicate  Georgian 
clock  pointed  to  one.  And  in  the  large  mirror  behind  the 
clock  she  beheld  an  image  she  supposed,  dreamily,  to  be 
herself.  The  bell  boy  was  taking  off  her  coat,  which  he 
hung,  with  Ditmar's,  on  a  rack  in  a  corner. 

"Shall  I  light  the  fire,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,"  said  Ditmar.  "And  tell  them  to  hurry  up  with 
lunch." 

The  boy  withdrew,  closing  the  door  silently  behind  him. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  249 

"We're  going  to  have  lunch  here!"  Janet  exclaimed. 

"Why  not?  I  thought  it  would  be  nicer  than  a  public 
dining-room,  and  when  I  got  up  this  morning  and  saw  what 
the  weather  was  I  telephoned."  He  placed  two  chairs  before 
the  fire,  which  had  begun  to  blaze.  "Isn't  it  cosy?"  he 
said,  taking  her  hands  and  pulling  her  toward  him.  His 
own  hands  trembled,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  were  cold. 

"You  are  cold  !"  she  said. 

"Not  now  —  not  now,"  he  replied.  The  queer  vibrations 
were  in  his  voice  that  she  had  heard  before.  "  Sweetheart ! 
This  is  the  best  yet,  isn't  it?  And  after  that  trip  in  the 
storm!" 

"It's  beautiful!"  she  murmured,  gently  drawing  away 
from  him  and  looking  around  her  once  more.  "  I  never  was 
in  a  room  like  this." 

"Wrell,  you'll  be  in  plenty  more  of  them,"  he  exulted. 
"Sit  down  beside  the  fire,  and  get  warm  yourself." 

She  obeyed,  and  he  took  the  chair  at  her  side,  his  eyes 
on  her  face.  As  usual,  she  was  beyond  him  ;  and  despite  her 
exclamations  of  surprise,  of  appreciation  and  pleasure  she 
maintained  the  outward  poise,  the  inscrutability  that  summed 
up  for  him  her  uniqueness  in  the  world  of  woman.  She  sat 
as  easily  upright  in  the  delicate  Chippendale  chair  as  though 
she  had  been  born  to  it.  He  made  wild  surmises  as  to  what 
she  might  be  thinking.  Was  she,  as  she  seemed,  taking  all 
this  as  a  matter  of  course  ?  She  imposed  on  him  an  impelling 
necessity  to  speak,  to  say  anything  —  it  did  not  matter 
what  —  and  he  began  to  dwell  on  the  excellences  of  the  hotel. 
She  did  not  appear  to  hear  him,  her  eyes  lingering  on  the 
room,  until  presently  she  asked :  — 

"WTiat's  the  name  of  this  hotel?" 

He  told  her. 

"I  thought  they  only  allowed  married  people  to  come, 
like  this,  in  a  private  room." 


250  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Oh!"  he  began  —  and  the  sudden  perception  that  she 
had  made  this  statement  impartially  added  to  his  perplexity. 
"Well,"  he  was  able  to  answer,  "we're  as  good  as  married, 
aren't  we,  Janet?"  He  leaned  toward  her,  he  put  his  hand 
on  hers.  "The  manager  here  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  He 
knows  we're  as  good  as  married." 

"Another  old  friend!"  she  queried.  And  the  touch  of 
humour,  in  spite  of  his  taut  nerves,  delighted  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  laughed,  rather  uproariously.  "I've  got 
'em  everywhere,  as  thick  as  landmarks." 

"You  seem  to,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  you're  hungry,"  he  said. 

"Not  very,"  she  replied.  "It's  all  so  strange  —  this 
day,  Claude.  It's  like  a  fairy  story,  coming  here  to  Boston 
in  the  snow,  and  this  place,  and  —  and  being  with  you." 

"You  still  love  me?"  he  cried,  getting  up. 

"You  must  know  that  I  do,"  she  answered  simply,  raising 
her  face  to  his.  And  he  stood  gazing  down  into  it,  with  an 
odd  expression  she  had  never  seen  before.  .  .  .  "What's 
the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing  —  nothing,"  he  assured  her,  but  continued  to 
look  at  her.  "You're  so  —  so  wonderful,"  he  whispered, 
"I  just  can't  believe  it." 

"And  if  it's  hard  for  you,"  she  answered,  "think  what 
it  must  be  for  me !"  And  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

Ditmar  had  known  a  moment  of  awe.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he 
took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  pressed  his  rough  cheek 
against  it,  blindly.  His  hands  trembled,  his  body  was 
shaken,  as  by  a  spasm. 

"Why,  you're  still  cold,  Claude!"  she  cried  anxiously. 

And  he  stammered  out :  "  I'm  not  —  it's  you  —  it's  having 
you!" 

Before  she  could  reply  to  this  strange  exclamation,  to 
which,  nevertheless,  some  fire  in  her  leaped  in  response, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  251 

there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  he  drew  away  from 
her  as  he  answered  it.  Two  waiters  entered  obsequiously, 
one  bearing  a  serving  table,  the  other  holding  above  his  head 
a  large  tray  containing  covered  dishes  and  glasses. 

"I  could  do  with  a  cocktail !"  Ditmar  exclaimed,  and  the 
waiter  smiled  as  he  served  them.  "Here's  how!"  he  said, 
giving  her  a  glass  containing  a  yellow  liquid. 

She  tasted  it,  made  a  grimace,  and  set  it  down  hastily. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  asked,  laughing,  as  she  hurried 
to  the  table  and  took  a  drink  of  water. 

"It's  horrid!"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  you'll  get  over  that  idea,"  he  told  her.  "You'll 
be  crazy  about  'em." 

"  I  never  want  to  taste  another,"  she  declared. 

He  laughed  again.  He  had  taken  his  at  a  swallow,  but 
almost  nullifying  its  effect  was  this  confirmation  —  if 
indeed  he  had  needed  it  —  of  the  extent  of  her  inexperience. 
She  was,  in  truth,  untouched  by  the  world  —  the  world  in 
which  he  had  lived.  He  pulled  out  her  chair  for  her  and  she 
sat  down,  confronted  by  a  series  of  knives,  forks,  and  spoons 
on  either  side  of  a  plate  of  oysters.  Oysters  served  in  this 
fashion,  needless  to  say,  had  never  formed  part  of  the  menu 
in  Fillmore  Street,  or  in  any  Hampton  restaurant  where  she 
had  lunched.  But  she  saw  that  Ditmar  had  chosen  a  little 
fork  with  three  prongs,  and  she  followed  his  example. 

"You  mustn't  tell  me  you  don't  like  Cotuits!"  he  ex 
claimed. 

She  touched  one,  delicately,  with  her  fork. 

"They're  alive!"  she  exclaimed,  though  the  custom  of 
consuming  them  thus  was  by  no  means  unknown  to  her.  Lise 
had  often  boasted  of  a  taste  for  oysters  on  the  shell,  though 
really  preferring  them  smothered  with  red  catsup  in  a  "  cock 
tail." 

"They're  alive,   but  they  don't  know  it.     They  won't 


252  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

eat  you,"  Ditmar  replied  gleefully.  "  Squeeze  a  little  lemon 
on  one."  Another  sort  of  woman,  he  reflected,  would  have 
feigned  a  familiarity  with  the  dish. 

She  obeyed  him,  put  one  in  her  mouth,  gave  a  little  shiver, 
and  swallowed  it  quickly. 

"Well?"  he  said.     "It  isn't  bad,  is  it?" 

"It  seems  so  queer  to  eat  anything  alive,  and  enjoy  it," 
she  said,  as  she  ate  the  rest  of  them. 

"If  you  think  they're  good  here  you  ought  to  taste  them 
on  the  Cape,  right  out  of  the  water,"  he  declared,  and  went 
on  to  relate  how  he  had  once  eaten  a  fabulous  number  in  a 
contest  with  a  friend  of  his,  and  won  a  bet.  He  was  fond 
of  talking  about  wagers  he  had  won.  Betting  had  lent  a 
zest  to  his  life.  "We'll  roll  down  there  together  some  day 
next  summer,  little  girl.  It's  a  great  place.  You  can  go  in 
swimming  three  times  a  day  and  never  feel  it.  And  talk 
about  eating  oysters,  you  can't  swallow  'em  as  fast  as  a  fellow 
I  know  down  there,  Joe  Pusey,  can  open  'em.  It's  some  trick 
to  open  'em." 

He  described  the  process,  but  she  scarcely  listened. 
She  was  striving  to  adjust  herself  to  the  elements  of  a 
new  and  revolutionary  experience ;  to  the  waiters  who  came 
and  went,  softly,  deferentially  putting  hot  plates  before 
her,  helping  her  to  strange  and  delicious  things ;  a  creamy 
soup,  a  fish  with  a  yellow  sauce  whose  ingredients  were  art 
fully  disguised,  a  breast  of  guinea  fowl,  a  salad,  an  ice,  and 
a  small  cup  of  coffee.  Instincts  and  tastes  hitherto  unsus 
pected  and  ungratified  were  aroused  in  her.  What  would  it 
be  like  always  to  be  daintily  served,  to  eat  one's  meals  in 
this  leisurely  and  luxurious  manner  ?  As  her  physical  hunger 
was  satisfied  by  the  dainty  food,  even  as  her  starved  senses 
drank  in  the  caressing  warmth  and  harmony  of  the  room, 
the  gleaming  fire,  the  heavy  scent  of  the  flowers,  the  rose 
glow  of  the  lights  in  contrast  to  the  storm  without,  —  so  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  253 

storm  flinging  itself  against  the  windows,  powerless  to  reach 
her,  seemed  to  typify  a  former  existence  of  cold,  black 
mornings  and  factory  bells  and  harsh  sirens,  of  toil  and 
limitations.  Had  her  existence  been  like  that?  or  was  it 
a  dream,  a  nightmare  from  which  she  had  awakened  at  last  ? 
From  time  to  time,  deep  within  her,  she  felt  persisting  a 
conviction  that  that  was  reality,  this  illusion,  but  she  fought 
it  down.  She  wanted  —  oh,  how  she  wanted  to  believe  in 
the  illusion ! 

Facing  her  was  the  agent,  the  genius,  the  Man  who  had 
snatched  her  from  that  existence,  who  had  at  his  command 
these  delights  to  bestow.  She  loved  him,  she  belonged  to 
him,  he  was  to  be  her  husband  —  yet  there  were  moments 
when  the  glamour  of  this  oddly  tended  to  dissolve,  when  an 
objective  vision  intruded  and  she  beheld  herself,  as  though 
removed  from  the  body,  lunching  with  a  strange  man  in  a 
strange  place.  And  once  it  crossed  her  mind  —  what  would 
she  think  of  another  woman  who  did  this  ?  What  would  she 
think  if  it  were  Lise?  She  could  not  then  achieve  a  sense 
of  identity;  it  was  as  though  she  had  partaken  of  some 
philtre  lulling  her,  inhibiting  her  power  to  grasp  the  fact 
in  its  enormity.  And  little  by  little  grew  on  her  the 
realization  of  what  all  along  she  had  known,  that  the  spell 
of  these  surroundings  to  which  she  had  surrendered  was  an 
expression  of  the  man  himself.  He  was  the  source  of  it. 
More  and  more,  as  he  talked,  his  eyes  troubled  and  stirred 
her;  the  touch  of  his  hand,  as  he  reached  across  the  table 
and  laid  it  on  hers,  burned  her.  Wlien  the  waiters  had  left 
them  alone  she  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer,  and  she 
rose  and  strayed  about  the  room,  examining  the  furniture, 
the  curtains,  the  crystal  pendants,  faintly  pink,  that  softened 
and  diffused  the  light;  and  she  paused  before  the  grand 
piano  in  the  corner. 

"I'd  like  to  be  able  to  play!"  she  said. 


254  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"You  can  learn,"  he  told  her. 

"I'm  too  old!" 

He  laughed.  And  as  he  sat  smoking  his  eyes  followed  her 
ceaselessly. 

Above  the  sofa  hung  a  large  print  of  the  Circus  Maximus, 
with  crowded  tiers  mounting  toward  the  sky,  and  awninged 
boxes  where  sat  the  Vestal  Virgins  and  the  Emperor  high 
above  a  motley,  serried  group  on  the  sand.  At  the  mouth 
of  a  tunnel  a  lion  stood  motionless,  menacing,  regarding 
them.  The  picture  fascinated  Janet. 

"  It's  meant  to  be  Rome,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What?  That?  I  guess  so."  He  got  up  and  came  over 
to  her.  "Sure,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  very  strong  on  history, 
but  I  read  a  book  once,  a  novel,  which  told  how  those  old 
fellows  used  to  like  to  see  Christians  thrown  to  the  lions  — 
just  as  we  like  to  see  football  games.  I'll  get  the  book 
again  —  we'll  read  it  together." 

Janet  shivered.  .  .  .  "Here's  another  picture,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  It  was,  apparently, 
an  engraved  copy  of  a  modern  portrait,  of  a  woman  in  even 
ing  dress  with  shapely  arms  and  throat  and  a  small,  aristo 
cratic  head.  Around  her  neck  was  hung  a  heavy  rope  of 
pearls. 

"Isn't  she  beautiful!"  Janet  sighed. 

"Beautiful!"  He  led  her  to  the  mirror.  "Look! "he 
said.  "  I'll  buy  you  pearls,  Janet,  I  want  to  see  them  gleam 
ing  against  your  skin.  She  can't  compare  to  you.  I'll  — 
I'll  drape  you  with  pearls." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried.  "I  don't  want  them,  Claude.  I 
don't  want  them.  Please!"  She  scarcely  knew  w^hat  she 
was  saying.  And  as  she  drew  away  from  him  her  hands 
went  out,  were  pressed  together  with  an  imploring,  suppli 
cating  gesture.  He  seized  them.  His  nearness  was  suffo 
cating  her,  she  flung  herself  into  his  arms,  and  their  lips  met 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  255 

in  a  long,  swooning  kiss.  She  began  instinctively  but 
yainly  to  struggle,  not  against  him  —  but  against  a  primal 
thing  stronger  than  herself,  stronger  than  he,  stronger  than 
codes  and  conventions  and  institutions,  which  yet  she  craved 
fiercely  as  her  being's  fulfilment.  It  was  sweeping  them 
dizzily  —  whither  ?  The  sheer  sweetness  and  terror  of  it ! 

"Don't,  don't!"  she  murmured  desperately.  "You 
mustn't!" 

"Janet  —  we're  going  to  be  married,  sweetheart,  —  just 
as  soon  as  we  can.  Won't  you  trust  me  ?  For  God's  sake, 
don't  be  cruel.  You're  my  wife,  now — " 

His  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a  great  distance.  And 
from  a  great  distance,  too,  her  own  in  reply,  drowned  as  by 
falling  waters. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  —  will  you  love  me  always  —  always  ?  " 

And  he  answered  hoarsely,  "  Yes  —  always  —  I  swear  it, 
Janet."  He  had  found  her  lips  again,  he  was  pulling  her 
toward  a  door  on  the  far  side  of  the  room,  and  suddenly, 
as  he  opened  it,  her  resistance  ceased.  .  .  . 


The  snow  made  automobiling  impossible,  and  at  half  past 
nine  that  evening  Ditmar  had  escorted  Janet  to  the  station 
in  a  cab,  and  she  had  taken  the  train  for  Hampton.  For  a 
while  she  sat  as  in  a  trance.  She  knew  that  something  had 
happened,  something  portentous,  cataclysmic,  which  had 
irrevocably  changed  her  from  the  Janet  Bumpus  who  had 
left  Hampton  that  same  morning  —  an  age  ago.  But 
she  was  unable  to  realize  the  metamorphosis.  In  the  course 
of  a  single  day  she  had  lived  a  lifetime,  exhausted  the  range 
of  human  experience,  until  now  she  was  powerless  to  feel 
any  more.  The  car  was  filled  with  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  people  returning  to  homes  scattered  through  the  suburbs 


256  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

and  smaller  cities  north  of  Boston  —  a  mixed,  Sunday-night 
crowd;  and  presently  she  began,  in  a  detached  way,  to 
observe  them.  Their  aspects,  their  speech  and  manners  had 
the  queer  effect  of  penetrating  her  consciousness  without 
arousing  the  emotional  judgments  of  approval  or  disapproval 
which  normally  should  have  followed.  Ordinarily  she  might 
have  felt  a  certain  sympathy  for  the  fragile  young  man  on  the 
seat  beside  her  who  sat  moodily  staring  through  his  glasses 
at  the  floor:  and  the  group  across  the  aisle  would  surely 
have  moved  her  to  disgust.  Two  couples  were  seated  vis-a 
vis,  the  men  apparently  making  fun  of  a  "pony"  coat  one 
of  the  girls  was  wearing.  In  spite  of  her  shrieks,  which  drew 
general  attention,  they  pulled  it  from  her  back  —  an  opera 
tion  regarded  by  the  conductor  himself  with  tolerant  amuse 
ment.  Whereupon  her  companion,  a  big,  blond  Teuton 
with  an  inane  guffaw,  boldly  thrust  an  arm  about  her  waist 
and  held  her  while  he  presented  the  tickets.  Janet  beheld 
all  this  as  one  sees  dancers  through  a  glass,  without  hearing 
the  music. 

Behind  her  two  men  fell  into  conversation. 

"  I  guess  there's  well  over  a  foot  of  snow.  I  thought  we'd 
have  an  open  winter,  too." 

"Look  out  for  them  when  they  start  in  mild !" 

"  I  was  afraid  this  darned  road  would  be  tied  up  if  I  waited 
until  morning.  I'm  in  real  estate,  and  there's  a  deal  on  in 
my  town  I've  got  to  watch  every  minute.  ..." 

Even  the  talk  between  two  slouch-hatted  millhands, 
foreigners,  failed  at  the  time  to  strike  Janet  as  having  any 
significance.  They  were  discussing  with  some  heat  the 
prospect  of  having  their  pay  reduced  by  the  fifty-four  hour 
law  which  was  to  come  into  effect  on  Monday.  They  de 
nounced  the  mill  owners. 

"They  speed  up  the  machine  and  make  work  harder," 
said  one.  "I  think  we  goin'  to  have  a  strike  sure." 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  257 

"Bad  sisson  too  to  have  strike,"  replied  the  second  pes 
simistically.  "It  will  be  cold  winter,  now." 

Across  the  black  square  of  the  window  drifted  the  stray 
lights  of  the  countryside,  and  from  time  to  time,  when  the 
train  stopped,  she  gazed  out,  unheeding,  at  the  figures  moving 
along  the  dim  station  platforms.  Suddenly,  without 
premeditation  or  effort,  she  began  to  live  over  again  the 
day,  beginning  with  the  wonders,  half  revealed,  half  hid 
den,  of  that  journey  through  the  whiteness  to  Boston.  .  .  . 
Awakened,  listening,  she  heard  beating  louder  and  louder 
on  the  shores  of  consciousness  the  waves  of  the  storm  which 
had  swept  her  away  —  waves  like  crashing  chords  of  music. 
She  breathed  deeply,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  window,  seem 
ing  to  behold  reflected  there,  as  in  a  crystal,  all  her  experiences, 
little  and  great,  great  and  little.  She  was  seated  once  more 
leaning  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  on  her  way  to  the 
station,  she  felt  Ditmar's  hand  working  in  her  own,  and  she 
heard  his  voice  pleading  forgiveness  —  for  her  silence  alarmed 
him.  And  she  heard  herself  saying  :  — 

"It  was  my  fault  as  much  as  yours." 

And  his  vehement  reply  :  — 

"  It  wasn't  anybody's  fault  —  it  was  natural,  it  was 
wonderful,  Janet.  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  sad." 

To  see  her  sad  !  Twice,  during  the  afternoon  and  evening, 
he  had  spoken  those  words  —  or  was  it  three  times  ?  Was 
there  a  time  she  had  forgotten?  And  each  time  she  had 
answered:  "I'm  not  sad."  What  she  had  felt  indeed  was 
not  sadness,  —  but  how  could  she  describe  it  to  him  when 
she  herself  was  amazed  and  dwarfed  by  it?  Could  he  not 
feel  it,  too?  Were  men  so  different?  ...  In  the  cab  his 
solicitation,  his  tenderness  were  only  to  be  compared  with 
his  bewilderment,  his  apparent  awe  of  the  feeling  he  himself 
had  raised  up  in  her,  and  which  awed  her,  likewise.  She 
had  actually  felt  that  bewilderment  of  his  when,  just  before 


258  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

they  had  reached  the  station,  she  had  responded  passionately 
to  his  last  embrace.  Even  as  he  returned  her  caresses,  it 
had  been  conveyed  to  her  amazingly  by  the  quality  of  his 
touch.  Was  it  a  lack  all  women  felt  in  men?  and  were 
these,  even  in  supreme  moments,  merely  the  perplexed 
transmitters  of  life  ?  —  not  life  itself  ?  Her  thoughts  did 
not  gain  this  clarity,  though  she  divined  the  secret.  And 
yet  she  loved  him  —  loved  him  with  a  fierceness  that 
frightened  her,  with  a  tenderness  that  unnerved  her.  .  .  . 

At  the  Hampton  station  she  took  the  trolley,  alighting  at 
the  Common,  following  the  narrow  path  made  by  pedestrians 
in  the  heavy  snow  to  Fillmore  Street.  She  climbed  the 
dark  stairs,  opened  the  dining-room  door,  and  paused  on  the 
threshold.  Hannah  and  Edward  sat  there  under  the  lamp, 
Hannah  scanning  through  her  spectacles  the  pages  of  a 
Sunday  newspaper.  On  perceiving  Janet  she  dropped  it 
hastily  in  her  lap. 

"Well,  I  was  concerned  about  you,  in  all  this  storm!" 
she  exclaimed.  "Thank  goodness  you're  home,  anyway. 
You  haven't  seen  Lise,  have  you?" 

"Lise?"  Janet  repeated.     "Hasn't  she  been  home?" 

"Your  father  and  I  have  been  alone  all  day  long.  Not 
that  it  is  so  uncommon  for  Lise  to  be  gone.  I  wish  it  wasn't ! 
But  you !  When  you  didn't  come  home  for  supper  I  was 
considerably  worried." 

Janet  sat  down  between  her  mother  and  father  and  began 
to  draw  off  her  gloves. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  Mr.  Ditmar,"  she  announced. 

For  a  few  moments  the  silence  was  broken  only  by  the 
ticking  of  the  old-fashioned  clock. 

"Mr.  Ditmar!"  said  Hannah,  at  length.  "You're  going 
to  marry  Mr.  Ditmar!" 

Edward  was  still  inarticulate.  His  face  twitched,  his 
eyes  watered  as  he  stared  at  her. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  259 

"Not  right  away,"  said  Janet. 

"Well,  I  must  say  you  take  it  rather  cool,"  declared 
Hannah,  almost  resentfully.  "  You  come  in  and  tell  us  you're 
going  to  marry  Mr.  Ditmar  just  like  you  were  talking  about 
the  weather." 

Hannah's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There  had  been  indeed 
an  unconscious  lack  of  consideration  in  Janet's  abrupt 
announcement,  which  had  fallen  like  a  spark  on  the  dry  tinder 
of  Hannah's  hope.  The  result  was  a  suffocating  flame. 
Janet,  whom  love  had  quickened,  had  a  swift  perception  of 
this.  She  rose  quickly  and  took  Hannah  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  her.  It  was  as  though  the  relation  between  them 
were  reversed,  and  the  daughter  had  now  become  the  mother 
and  the  comforter. 

"I  always  knew  something  like  this  would  happen!" 
said  Edward.  His  words  incited  Hannah  to  protest. 

"You  didn't  anything  of  the  kind,  Edward  Bumpus,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"  Just  to  think  of  Janet  livin'  in  that  big  house  up  in  Warren 
Street!"  he  went  on,  unheeding,  jubilant.  "You'll  drop 
in  and  see  the  old  people  once  in  a  while,  Janet,  you  won't 
forget  us?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  father,"  said  Janet. 

"Well,  he's  a  fine  man,  Claude  Ditmar,  I  always  said  that. 
The  way  he  stops  and  talks  to  me  when  he  passes  the  gate  — " 

"That  doesn't  make  him  a  good  man,"  Hannah  declared, 
and  added :  "  If  he  wasn't  a  good  man,  Janet  wouldn't  be 
marrying  him." 

"I  don't  know  whether  he's  good  or  not,"  said  Janet. 

"That's  so,  too,"  observed  Hannah,  approvingly.  "We 
can't  any  of  us  tell  till  we've  tried  'em,  and  then  it's  too 
late  to  change.  I'd  like  to  see  him,  but  I  guess  he  wouldn't 
care  to  come  down  here  to  Fillmore  Street."  The  difference 
between  Ditmar's  social  and  economic  standing  and  their 


260  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

own  suggested  appalling  complications  to  her  mind.  "I 
suppose  I  won't  get  a  sight  of  him  till  after  you're  married, 
and  not  much  then." 

"There's  plenty  of  time  to  think  about  that,  mother," 
answered  Janet. 

"I'd  want  to  have  everything  decent  and  regular," 
Hannah  insisted.  "We  may  be  poor,  but  we  come  of  good 
stock,  as  your  father  says." 

"  It'll  be  all  right  —  Mr.  Ditmar  will  behave  like  a  gentle 
man,"  Edward  assured  her. 

"I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  about  it,"  Janet  said,  "but 
you  mustn't  mention  it,  yet,  not  even  to  Lise.  Lise  will 
talk.  Mr.  Ditmar's  very  busy  now,  —  he  hasn't  made 
any  plans." 

"I  wish  Lise  could  get  married!"  exclaimed  Hannah, 
irrelevantly.  "She's  been  acting  so  queer  lately,  she's  not 
been  herself  at  all." 

"Now  there  you  go,  borrowing  trouble,  mother,"  Edward 
exclaimed.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  Janet,  but 
continued  to  regard  her  with  benevolence.  "Lise'll  get 
married  some  day.  I  don't  suppose  we  can  expect  another 
Mr.  Ditmar.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Hannah,  presently,  "there's  no  use  sitting 
up  all  night."  She  rose  and  kissed  Janet  again.  "I  just 
can't  believe  it,"  she  declared,  "but  I  guess  it's  so  if  you  say 
it  is." 

"Of  course  it's  so,"  said  Edward. 

"I  so  want  you  should  be  happy,  Janet,"  said  Han 
nah.  .  .  . 

Was  it  so?  Her  mother  and  father,  the  dwarfed  and 
ugly  surroundings  of  Fillmore  Street  made  it  seem  incredible 
once  more.  And  —  what  would  they  say  if  they  knew  what 
had  happened  to  her  this  day?  When  she  had  reached  her 
room,  Janet  began  to  wonder  why  she  had  told  her  parents 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  261 

Had  it  not  been  in  order  to  relieve  their  anxiety  —  especially 
her  mother's  —  on  the  score  of  her  recent  absences  from  home  ? 
Yes,  that  was  it,  and  because  the  news  would  make  them 
happy.  And  then  the  mere  assertion  to  them  that  she  was  to 
marry  Ditmar  helped  to  make  it  more  real  to  herself.  But 
now  that  reality  was  fading  again,  she  was  unable  to  bring  it 
within  the  scope  of  her  imagination,  her  mind  refused  to 
hold  one  remembered  circumstance  long  enough  to  coordinate 
it  with  another :  she  realized  that  she  was  tired  —  too  tired 
to  think  any  more.  But  despite  her  exhaustion  there  re 
mained  within  her,  possessing  her,  as  it  were  overshadowing 
her,  unrelated  to  future  or  past,  the  presence  of  the  man  who 
had  awakened  her  to  an  intensity  of  life  hitherto  unconceived. 
When  her  head  touched  the  pillow  she  fell  asleep.  .  .  . 


When  the  bells  and  the  undulating  scream  of  the  siren 
awoke  her,  she  lay  awhile  groping  in  the  darkness.  Where 
was  she  ?  Who  was  she  ?  The  discovery  of  the  fact  that  the 
nail  of  the  middle  finger  on  her  right  hand  was  broken,  gave 
her  a  clew.  She  had  broken  that  nail  in  reaching  out  to 
save  something  —  a  vase  of  roses  —  that  was  it !  —  a  vase 
of  roses  on  a  table  with  a  white  cloth.  Ditmar  had  tipped 
it  over.  The  sudden  flaring  up  of  this  trivial  incident  served 
to  re-establish  her  identity,  to  light  a  fuse  along  which  her 
mind  began  to  run  like  fire,  illuminating  redly  all  the  events 
of  the  day  before.  It  was  sweet  to  lie  thus,  to  possess,  as 
her  very  own,  these  precious,  passionate  memories  of  life 
lived  at  last  to  fulness,  to  feel  that  she  had  irrevocably 
given  herself  and  taken  —  all.  A  longing  to  see  Ditmar 
again  invaded  her :  he  would  take  an  early  train,  he 
would  be  at  the  office  by  nine.  How  could  she  wait 
until  then? 


262  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

With  a  movement  that  had  become  habitual,  subconscious, 
she  reached  out  her  hand  to  arouse  her  sister.  The  coldness 
of  the  sheets  on  the  right  side  of  the  bed  sent  a  shiver  through 
her  —  a  shiver  of  fear. 

"Lise!"  she  called.  But  there  was  no  answer  from  the 
darkness.  And  Janet,  trembling,  her  heart  beating  wildly, 
sprang  from  the  bed,  searched  for  the  matches,  and  lit  the 
gas.  There  was  no  sign  of  Lise ;  her  clothes,  which  she  had 
the  habit  of  flinging  across  the  chairs,  were  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Janet's  eyes  fell  on  the  bureau,  marked  the  absence 
of  several  knick-knacks,  including  a  comb  and  brush,  and  with 
a  sudden  sickness  of  apprehension  she  darted  to  the  wardrobe 
and  flung  open  the  doors.  In  the  bottom  were  a  few  odd 
garments,  above  was  the  hat  with  the  purple  feather,  now 
shabby  and  discarded,  on  the  hooks  a  skirt  and  jacket  Lise 
wore  to  work  at  the  Bagatelle  in  bad  weather.  That  was 
all.  .  .  .  Janet  sank  down  in  the  rocking-chair,  her  hands 
clasped  together,  overwhelmed  by  the  sudden  apprehension 
of  the  tragedy  that  had  lurked,  all  unsuspected,  in  the  dark 
ness  :  a  tragedy,  not  of  Lise  alone,  but  in  which  she  herself 
was  somehow  involved.  Just  why  this  was  so,  she  could  not 
for  the  moment  declare.  The  room  was  cold,  she  was  clad 
only  in  a  nightdress,  but  surges  of  heat  ran  through  her 
body.  What  should  she  do  ?  She  must  think.  But  thought 
was  impossible.  She  got  up  and  closed  the  window  and  began 
to  dress  with  feverish  rapidity,  pausing  now  and  again  to 
stand  motionless.  In  one  such  moment  there  entered  her 
mind  an  incident  that  oddly  had  made  little  impression  at  the 
time  of  its  occurrence  because  she,  Janet,  had  been  blinded 
by  the  prospect  of  her  own  happiness  —  that  happiness 
which,  a  few  minutes  ago,  had  seemed  so  real  and  vital  a 
thing !  And  it  was  the  memory  of  this  incident  that  suddenly 
threw  a  glaring,  evil  light  on  all  of  Lise's  conduct  during  the 
past  months  —  her  accidental  dropping  of  the  vanity  case 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  263 

and  the  gold  coin !  Now  she  knew  for  a  certainty  what  had 
happened  to  her  sister. 

Having  dressed  herself,  she  entered  the  kitchen,  which 
was  warm,  filled  with  the  smell  of  frying  meat.  Streaks  of 
grease  smoke  floated  fantastically  beneath  the  low  ceiling, 
and  Hannah,  with  the  frying-pan  in  one  hand  and  a  fork  in 
the  other,  was  bending  over  the  stove.  Wisps  of  her  scant, 
whitening  hair  escaped  from  the  ridiculous,  tightly  drawn 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head ;  in  the  light  of  the  flickering 
gas-jet  she  looked  so  old  and  worn  that  a  sudden  pity  smote 
Janet  and  made  her  dumb  —  pity  for  her  mother,  pity  for 
herself,  pity  for  Lise;  pity  that  lent  a  staggering  insight 
into  life  itself.  Hannah  had  once  been  young,  desirable, 
perhaps,  swayed  by  those  forces  which  had  swayed  her. 
Janet  wondered  why  she  had  never  guessed  this  before,  and 
why  she  had  guessed  it  now.  But  it  was  Hannah  who, 
looking  up  and  catching  sight  of  Janet's  face,  was  quick  to 
divine  the  presage  in  it  and  gave  voice  to  the  foreboding 
that  had  weighed  on  her  for  many  weeks. 

"Where's  Lise?" 

And  Janet  could  not  answer.  She  shook  her  head. 
Hannah  dropped  the  fork,  the  handle  of  the  frying 
pan  and  crossed  the  room  swiftly,  seizing  Janet  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Is  she  gone?  I  knew  it,  I  felt  it  all  along.  I  thought 
she'd  done  something  she  was  afraid  to  tell  about  —  I  tried 
to  ask  her,  but  I  couldn't  —  I  couldn't !  And  now  she's 
gone.  Oh,  my  God,  I'll  never  forgive  myself!" 

The  unaccustomed  sight  of  her  mother's  grief  was  terrible. 
For  an  instant  only  she  clung  to  Janet,  then  becoming  mute, 
she  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  chair  and  stared  with  dry,  un 
seeing  eyes  at  the  wall.  Her  face  twitched.  Janet  could 
not  bear  to  look  at  it,  to  see  the  torture  in  her  mother's  eyes. 
She,  Janet,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  old  herself,  to 


264  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

have  lived  through  ages  of  misery  and  tragedy.  .  .  .  She 
was  aware  of  a  pungent  odour,  went  to  the  stove,  picked  up 
the  fork,  and  turned  the  steak.  Now  and  then  she  glanced 
at  Hannah.  Grief  seemed  to  have  frozen  her.  Then,  from 
the  dining-room  she  heard  footsteps,  and  Edward  stood  in 
the  doorway. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  breakfast?"  he  asked. 
From  where  he  stood  he  could  not  see  Hannah's  face,  but 
gradually  his  eyes  were  drawn  to  her  figure.  His  intuition 
was  not  quick,  and  some  moments  passed  before  the  rigidity 
of  the  pose  impressed  itself  upon  him. 

"Is  mother  sick?"  he  asked  falteringly. 

Janet  went  to  him.     But  it  was  Hannah  who  spoke. 

"Lise  has  gone,"  she  said. 

"Lise  —  gone,"  Edward  repeated.     "Gone  where?" 

"She's  run  away  —  she's  disgraced  us,"  Hannah  replied, 
in  a  monotonous,  dulled  voice. 

Edward  did  not  seem  to  understand,  and  presently  Janet 
felt  impelled  to  break  the  silence. 

"She  didn't  come  home  last  night,  father." 

"  Didn't  come  home  ?  Mebbe  she  spent  the  night  with  a 
friend,"  he  said. 

It  seemed  incredible,  at  such  a  moment,  that  he  could  still 
be  hopeful. 

"No,  she's  gone,  I  tell  you,  she's  lost,  we'll  never  lay 
eyes  on  her  again.  My  God,  I  never  thought  she'd  come 
to  this,  but  I  might  have  guessed  it.  Lise  !  Lise  !  To  think 
it's  my  Lise!" 

Hannah's  voice  echoed  pitifully  through  the  silence  of 
the  flat.  So  appealing,  so  heartbroken  was  the  cry  one 
might  have  thought  that  Lise,  wherever  she  was,  would  have 
heard  it.  Edward  was  dazed  by  the  shock,  his  lower  lip 
quivered  and  fell.  He  walked  over  to  Hannah's  chair  and 
put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  265 

"There,  there,  mother,"  he  pleaded.  "If  she's  gone, 
we'll  find  her,  we'll  bring  her  back  to  you." 

Hannah  shook  her  head.  She  pushed  back  her  chair 
abruptly  and  going  over  to  the  stove  took  the  fork  from 
Janet's  hand  and  put  the  steak  on  the  dish. 

"Go  in  there  and  set  down,  Edward,"  she  said.  "I  guess 
we've  got  to  have  breakfast  just  the  same,  whether  she's 
gone  or  not." 

It  was  terrible  to  see  Hannah,  with  that  look  on  her 
face,  going  about  her  tasks  automatically.  And  Edward, 
too,  seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  aged  and  broken; 
his  trust  in  the  world,  so  amazingly  preserved  through 
many  vicissitudes,  shattered  at  last.  He  spilled  his 
coffee  when  he  tried  to  drink,  and  presently  he  got  up 
and  wandered  about  the  room,  searching  for  his  overcoat. 
It  was  Janet  who  found  it  and  helped  him  on  with  it. 
He  tried  to  say  something,  but  failing,  departed  heavily  for 
the  mill.  Janet  began  to  remove  the  dishes  from  the 
table. 

"You've  got  to  eat  something,  too,  before  you  go  to 
work,"  said  Hannah. 

"I've  had  all  I  want,"  Janet  replied. 

Hannah  followed  her  into  the  kitchen.  The  scarcely 
touched  food  was  laid  aside,  the  coffee-pot  emptied,  Hannah 
put  the  cups  in  the  basin  in  the  sink  and  let  the  water  run. 
She  turned  to  Janet  and  seized  her  hands  convulsively. 

"Let  me  do  this,  mother,"  said  Janet.  She  knew  her 
mother  was  thinking  of  the  newly-found  joy  that  Lise's 
disgrace  had  marred,  but  she  released  her  hands,  gently, 
and  took  the  mop  from  the  nail  on  which  it  hung. 

"You  sit  down,  mother,"  she  said. 

Hannah  would  not.  They  finished  the  dishes  together 
in  silence  while  the  light  of  the  new  day  stole  in  through 
the  windows.  Janet  went  into  her  room,  set  it  in  order, 


266  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

made  up  the  bed,  put  on  her  coat  and  hat  and  rubbers. 
Then  she  returned  to  Hannah,  who  seized  her. 

"It  ain't  going  to  spoil  your  happiness ?" 

But  Janet  could  not  answer.  She  kissed  her  mother,  and 
went  out,  down  the  stairs  into  the  street.  The  day  was 
sharp  and  cold  and  bracing,  and  out  of  an  azure  sky  the  sun 
shone  with  dazzling  brightness  on  the  snow,  which  the  west 
wind  was  whirling  into  little  eddies  of  white  smoke,  leaving 
on  the  drifts  delicate  scalloped  designs  like  those  printed  by 
waves  on  the  sands  of  the  sea.  They  seemed  to  Janet  that 
morning  hatefully  beautiful.  In  front  of  his  tin  shop,  whis 
tling  cheerfully  and  labouring  energetically  with  a  shovel  to 
clean  his  sidewalk,  was  Johnny  Tiernan,  the  tip  of  his  pointed 
nose  made  very  red  by  the  wind. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said.  "Now,  if  you'd 
only  waited  awhile,  I'd  have  had  it  as  clean  as  a  parlour.  It's 
fine  weather  for  coal  bills." 

She  halted. 

"  Can  I  see  you  a  moment,  Mr.  Tiernan  ?  " 

Johnny  looked  at  her. 

"Why  sure/'  he  said.  Leaning  his  shovel  against  the 
wall,  he  gallantly  opened  the  door  that  she  might  pass 
in  before  him  and  then  led  the  way  to  the  back  of 
the  shop  where  the  stove  was  glowing  hospitably.  He 
placed  a  chair  for  her.  "  Now  what  can  I  be  doing  to  serve 
you?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  about  my  sister,"  said  Janet. 

"MissLise?" 

"I  thought  you  might  know  what  man  she's  been  going 
with  lately,"  said  Janet. 

Mr.  Tiernan  had  often  wondered  how  much  Janet  knew 
about  her  sister.  In  spite  of  a  momentary  embarrass 
ment  most  unusual  in  him,  the  courage  of  her  question 
made  a  strong  appeal,  and  his  quick  sympathies  suspected 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  267 

the  tragedy  behind  her  apparent  calmness.  He  met  her 
magnificently. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  Miss  Lise  with  a  fellow 
named  Duval  —  Howard  Duval  —  when  he's  been  in  town. 
He  travels  for  a  Boston  shoe  house,  Humphrey  and  Gill- 
mount." 

"I'm  afraid  Lise  has  gone  away  with  him,"  said  Janet. 
"I  thought  you  might  be  able  to  find  out  something  about 
him,  and  —  whether  any  one  had  seen  them.  She  left  home 
yesterday  morning." 

For  an  instant  Mr.  Tiernan  stood  silent  before  her,  his 
legs  apart,  his  fingers  running  through  his  bristly  hair. 

"Well,  ye  did  right  to  come  straight  to  me,  Miss  Janet. 
It's  me  that  can  find  out,  if  anybody  can,  and  it's  glad  I  am 
to  help  you.  Just  you  stay  here  —  make  yourself  at  home 
while  I  run  down  and  see  some  of  the  boys.  I'll  not  be 
long  —  and  don't  be  afraid  I'll  let  on  about  it." 

He  seized  his  overcoat  and  departed.  Presently  the  sun, 
glinting  on  the  sheets  of  tin,  started  Janet's  glance  stray 
ing  around  the  shop,  noting  its  disorderly  details,  the 
heaped-up  stovepipes,  the  littered  work-bench  with  the 
shears  lying  across  the  vise.  Once  she  thought  of  Ditmar 
arriving  at  the  office  and  wondering  what  had  happened 
to  her.  .  .  .  The  sound  of  a  bell  made  her  jump.  Mr. 
Tiernan  had  returned. 

"She's  gone  with  him,"  said  Janet,  not  as  a  question,  but 
as  one  stating  a  fact. 

Mr.  Tiernan  nodded. 

"They  took  the  nine-thirty-six  for  Boston  yesterday 
morning.  Eddy  Colahan  was  at  the  depot." 

Janet  rose.     "Thank  you,"  she  said  simply. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  Boston,"  she  answered.  "I'm  going  to 
find  out  where  she  is." 


268  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Then  it's  me  that's  going  with  you,"  he  announced. 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Tiernan!"  she  protested.  "I  couldn't  let 
you  do  that." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  I've  got  a  little  business 
there  myself.  I'm  proud  to  go  with  you.  It's  your  sister 
you  want,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  what  would  you  be  doing  by  yourself  —  a  young 
lady?  How  will  you  find  your  sister?" 

"Do  you  think  you  can  find  her?" 

"Sure  I  can  find  her,"  he  proclaimed,  confidently.  He 
had  evidently  made  up  his  mind  that  casual  treatment  was 
what  the  affair  demanded.  "Haven't  I  good  friends  in 
Boston?"  By  friendship  he  swayed  his  world  :  nor  was  he 
completely  unknown  —  though  he  did  not  say  so  —  to  certain 
influential  members  of  his  race  of  the  Boston  police  depart 
ment.  Pulling  out  a  large  nickel  watch  and  observing  that 
they  had  just  time  to  catch  the  train,  he  locked  up  his  shop, 
and  they  set  out  together  for  the  station.  Mr.  Tiernan  led 
the  way,  for  the  path  was  narrow.  The  dry  snow  squeaked 
under  his  feet. 

After  escorting  her  to  a  seat  on  the  train,  he  tactfully 
retired  to  the  smoking  car,  not  to  rejoin  her  until  they  were 
on  the  trestle  spanning  the  Charles  River  by  the  North 
Station.  All  the  way  to  Boston  she  had  sat  gazing  out  of 
the  window  at  the  blinding  whiteness  of  the  fields,  incapable 
of  rousing  herself  to  the  necessity  of  thought,  to  a  degree 
of  feeling  commensurate  with  the  situation.  She  did  not 
know  what  she  would  say  to  Lise  if  she  should  find  her ;  and 
in  spite  of  Mr.  Tiernan's  expressed  confidence,  the  chances  of 
success  seemed  remote.  When  the  train  began  to  thread 
the  crowded  suburbs,  the  city,  spreading  out  over  its  hills, 
instead  of  thrilling  her,  as  yesterday,  with  a  sense  of  dignity 
and  power,  of  opportunity  and  emancipation,  seemed  a 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  269 

labyrinth  with  many  warrens  where  vice  and  crime  and 
sorrow  could  hide.  In  front  of  the  station  the  traffic  was 
already  crushing  the  snow  into  filth.  They  passed  the  spot 
where,  the  night  before,  the  carriage  had  stopped,  where 
Ditmar  had  bidden  her  good-bye.  Something  stirred  within 
her,  became  a  shooting  pain.  .  .  .  She  asked  Mr.  Tiernan 
what  he  intended  to  do. 

"I'm  going  right  after  the  man,  if  he's  here  in  the  city/' 
he  told  her.  And  they  boarded  a  street  car,  which  almost 
immediately  shot  into  the  darkness  of  the  subway.  Emerg 
ing  at  Scollay  Square,  and  walking  a  few  blocks,  they  came 
to  a  window  where  guns,  revolvers,  and  fishing  tackle  were 
displayed,  and  on  which  was  painted  the  name,  "Timothy 
Mulally."  Mr.  Tiernan  entered. 

"  Is  Tim  in  ?  "  he  inquired  of  one  of  the  clerks,  who  nodded 
his  head  towards  the  rear  of  the  store,  where  a  middle-aged, 
grey-haired  Irishman  was  seated  at  a  desk  under  a  drop  light. 

"Is  it  you,  Johnny?"  he  exclaimed,  looking  up. 

"It's  meself,"  said  Mr.  Tiernan.  "And  this  is  Miss 
Bumpus,  a  young  lady  friend  of  mine  from  Hampton." 

Mr.  Mulally  rose  and  bowed. 

"How  do  ye  do,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

"I've  got  a  little  business  to  do  for  her,"  Mr.  Tiernan 
continued.  "I  thought  you  might  offer  her  a  chair  and  let 
her  stay  here,  quiet,  while  I  was  gone." 

"With  pleasure,  ma'am,"  Mr.  Mulally  replied,  pulling 
forward  a  chair  with  alacrity.  "Just  sit  there  comfortable 
—  no  one  will  disturb  ye." 

When,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Tiernan  returned, 
there  was  a  grim  yet  triumphant  look  in  his  little  blue  eyes, 
but  it  was  not  until  Janet  had  thanked  Mr.  Mulally  for  his 
hospitality  and  they  had  reached  the  sidewalk  that  he 
announced  the  result  of  his  quest. 

"Well,  I  caught  him.     It's  lucky  we  came  when  we  did  — 


270  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

he  was  just  going  out  on  the  road  again,  up  to  Maine.  I 
know  where  Miss  Lise  is." 

"He  told  you!"  exclaimed  Janet. 

"He  told  me  indeed,  but  it  wasn't  any  joy  to  him.  He 
was  all  for  bluffing  at  first.  It's  easy  to  scare  the  likes  of 
him.  He  was  as  white  as  his  collar  before  I  was  done  with 
him.  He  knows  who  I  am,  all  right  —  he's  heard  of  me 
in  Hampton/'  Mr.  Tiernan  added,  with  a  pardonable  touch 
of  pride. 

"What  did  you  say?"  inquired  Janet,  curiously. 

"Say?"  repeated  Mr.  Tiernan.  "It's  not  much  I  had  to 
say,  Miss  Janet.  I  was  all  ready  to  go  to  Mr.  Gillmount, 
his  boss.  I'm  guessing  he  won't  take  much  pleasure  on  this 
trip." 

She  asked  for  no  more  details. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


ONCE  more  Janet  and  Mr.  Tiernan  descended  into  the 
subway,  taking  a  car  going  to  the  south  and  west,  which 
finally  came  out  of  the  tunnel  into  a  broad  avenue  lined 
with  shabby  shops,  hotels  and  saloons,  and  long  rows  of 
boarding-  and  rooming-houses.  They  alighted  at  a  certain 
corner,  walked  a  little  way  along  a  street  unkempt  and 
dreary,  Mr.  Tiernan  scrutinizing  the  numbers  until  he 
paused  in  front  of  a  house  with  a  basement  kitchen  and 
snow-covered,  sandstone  steps.  Climbing  these,  he  pulled 
the  bell,  and  they  stood  waiting  in  the  twilight  of  a  half- 
closed  vestibule  until  presently  shuffling  steps  were  heard 
within;  the  door  was  cautiously  opened,  not  more  than  a 
foot,  but  enough  to  reveal  a  woman  in  a  loose  wrapper, 
with  an  untidy  mass  of  bleached  hair  and  a  puffy  face  like 
a  fungus  grown  in  darkness. 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Lise  Bumpus,"  Mr.  Tiernan  demanded. 

"You've  got  the  wrong  place.  There  ain't  no  one  of 
that  name  here,"  said  the  woman. 

"There  ain't!  All  right,"  he  insisted  aggressively, 
pushing  open  the  door  in  spite  of  her.  "If  you  don't  let 
this  young  lady  see  her  quick,  there's  trouble  coming  to  you." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  woman,  impudently,  yet  show 
ing  signs  of  fear. 

"Never  mind  who  I  am,"  Mr.  Tiernan  declared.  " I  know 
all  about  you,  and  I  know  all  about  Duval.  If  you  don't 
want  any  trouble  you  won't  make  any,  and  you'll  take  this 

271 


272  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

young  lady  to  her  sister.  I'll  wait  here  for  you,  Miss 
Janet,"  he  added. 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  about  her  —  she  rented  my  room  — 
that's  all  I  know,"  the  woman  replied  sullenly.  "If  you 
mean  that  couple  that  came  here  yesterday  — 

She  turned  and  led  the  way  upstairs,  mounting  slowly, 
and  Janet  followed,  nauseated  and  almost  overcome  by  the 
foul  odours  of  dead  cigarette  smoke  which,  mingling  with 
the  smell  of  cooking  cabbage  rising  from  below,  seemed  the 
very  essence  and  reek  of  hitherto  unimagined  evil.  A  terror 
seized  her  such  as  she  had  never  known  before,  an  almost 
overwhelming  impulse  to  turn  and  regain  the  air  and  sun 
light  of  the  day.  In  the  dark  hallway  of  the  second  story 
the  woman  knocked  at  the  door  of  a  front  room. 

"She's  in  there,  unless  she's  gone  out."  And  indeed  a 
voice  was  heard  petulantly  demanding  what  was  wanted  — 
Lise's  voice !  Janet  hesitated,  her  hand  on  the  knob,  her 
body  fallen  against  the  panels.  Then,  as  she  pushed  open 
the  door,  the  smell  of  cigarette  smoke  grew  stronger,  and 
she  found  herself  in  a  large  bedroom,  the  details  of  which  were 
instantly  photographed  on  her  mind  —  the  dingy  claret- 
red  walls,  the  crayon  over  the  mantel  of  a  buxom  lady  in  a 
decollete  costume  of  the  '90's,  the  outspread  fan  concealing 
the  fireplace,  the  soiled  lace  curtains.  The  bed  was  unmade, 
and  on  the  table  beside  two  empty  beer  bottles  and  glasses 
and  the  remains  of  a  box  of  candy  —  suggestive  of  a  Sunday 
purchase  at  a  drug  store  —  she  recognized  Lise's  vanity  case. 
The  effect  of  all  this,  integrated  at  a  glance,  was  a  paralyzing 
horror.  Janet  could  not  speak.  She  remained  gazing  at 
Lise,  who  paid  no  attention  to  her  entrance,  but  stood  with 
her  back  turned  before  an  old-fashioned  bureau  with  a 
marble  top  and  raised  sides.  She  was  dressed,  and  engaged 
in  adjusting  her  hat.  It  was  not  until  Janet  pronounced 
her  name  that  she  turned  swiftly. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  273 

"You  I"  she  exclaimed.  "What  the  —  what  brought  you 
here?" 

"Oh,  Lise!"  Janet  repeated. 

"How  did  you  get  here?"  Lise  demanded,  coming  toward 
her.  "Who  told  you  where  I  was?  What  business  have 
you  got  sleuthing  'round  after  me  like  this?" 

For  a  moment  Janet  was  speechless  once  more,  astounded 
that  Lise  could  preserve  her  effrontery  in  such  an  atmosphere, 
could  be  insensible  to  the  evils  lurking  in  this  house  —  evils 
so  real  to  Janet  that  she  seemed  actually  to  feel  them  brush 
ing  against  her. 

"Lise,  come  away  from  here,"  she  pleaded,  "come  home 
with  me!" 

"Home!"  said  Lise,  defiantly,  and  laughed.  "What  do 
you  take  me  for?  Why  would  I  be  going  home  when  I've 
been  trying  to  break  away  for  two  years  ?  I  ain't  so  dippy  as 
that  —  not  me  !  Go  home  like  a  good  little  girl  and  march 
back  to  the  Bagatelle  and  ask  'em  to  give  me  another  show 
standing  behind  a  counter  all  day.  Nix!  No  home  sweet 
home  for  me !  I'm  all  for  easy  street  when  it  comes  to  a 
home  like  that." 

Heartless,  terrific  as  the  repudiation  was,  it  struck  a 
self-convicting,  almost  sympathetic  note  in  Janet.  She 
herself  had  revolted  against  the  monotony  and  sordidness 
of  that  existence  !  She  herself  — !  She  dared  not  complete 
the  thought,  now. 

"But  this !"  she  exclaimed. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  Lise  demanded.  "It 
ain't  Commonwealth  Avenue,  but  it's  got  Fillmore  Street 
beat  a  mile.  There  ain't  no  whistles  here  to  get  you  out  of 
bed  at  six  A.M.,  for  one  thing.  There  ain't  no  geezers,  like 
Walters,  to  nag  you  'round  all  day  long.  What's  the  matter 
with  it?" 

Something  in  Lise's  voice  roused  Janet's  spirit  to  battle. 


274  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  she  cried.  "It's  hell — 
that's  the  matter  with  it.  Can't  you  see  it?  Can't  you 
feel  it  ?  You  don't  know  what  it  means,  or  you'd  come  home 
with  me." 

"I  guess  I  know  what  it  means  as  well  as  you  do,"  said 
Lise,  sullenly.  "We've  all  got  to  croak  sometime,  and  I'd 
rather  croak  this  way  than  be  smothered  up  in  Hampton. 
I'll  get  a  run  for  my  money,  anyway." 

"No,  you  don't  know  what  it  means,"  Janet  repeated, 
"or  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that.  Do  you  think  this  man 
will  support  you,  stick  to  you  ?  He  won't,  he'll  desert  you, 
and  you'll  have  to  go  on  the  streets." 

A  dangerous  light  grew  in  Lise's  eyes. 

"  He's  as  good  as  any  other  man,  he's  as  good  as  Ditmar," 
she  said.  "They're  all  the  same,  to  girls  like  us." 

Janet's  heart  caught,  it  seemed  to  stop  beating.  Was 
this  a  hazard  on  Lise's  part,  or  did  she  speak  from  knowledge  ? 
And  yet  what  did  it  matter  whether  Lise  knew  or  only 
suspected,  if  her  words  were  true,  if  men  were  all  alike? 
Had  she  been  a  dupe  as  well  as  Lise  ?  and  was  the  only  dif 
ference  between  them  now  the  fact  that  Lise  was  able,  without 
illusion,  to  see  things  as  they  were,,  to  accept  the  conse 
quences,  while  she,  Janet,  had  beheld  visions  and  dreamed 
dreams?  was  there  any  real  choice  between  the  luxurious 
hotel  to  which  Ditmar  had  taken  her  and  this  detestable 
house?  Suddenly,  seemingly  by  chance,  her  eyes  fell  on 
the  box  of  drug-store  candy  from  which  the  cheap  red  ribbon 
had  been  torn,  and  by  some  odd  association  of  ideas  it  sug 
gested  and  epitomized  Lise's  Sunday  excursion  with  a  man — 
a  hideous  travesty  on  the  journey  of  wonders  she  herself  had 
taken.  Had  that  been  heaven,  and  this  of  Lise's,  hell  ?  .  .  . 
And  was  Lise's  ambition  to  be  supported  in  idleness  and 
luxury  to  be  condemned  because  she  had  believed  her  own  to 
be  higher?  Did  not  both  lead  to  destruction ?  The  weight 


THE   DWELLIXG-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  275 

that  had  lain  on  her  breast  since  the  siren  had  awakened  her 
that  morning  and  she  had  reached  out  and  touched  the  chilled, 
empty  sheets  now  grew  almost  unsupportable. 

"It's  true,"  said  Janet,  "all  men  are  the  same." 

Lise  was  staring  at  her. 

"  My  God  ! "  she  exclaimed.     "  You  ?  " 

"  Yes — me,"  cried  Janet.  "  And  what  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it?  Stay  here  with  him  in  this  filthy  place  until  he 
gets  tired  of  you  and  throws  you  out  on  the  street  ?  Before 
I'd  let  any  man  do  that  to  me  I'd  kill  him." 

Lise  began  to  whimper,  and  suddenly  buried  her  face  in 
the  pillow.  But  a  new  emotion  had  begun  to  take  possession 
of  Janet  —  an  emotion  so  strong  as  to  give  her  an  unlooked- 
for  sense  of  detachment.  And  the  words  Lise  had  spoken 
between  her  sobs  at  first  conveyed  no  meaning. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  baby.  .  .  ." 

Lise  was  going  to  have  a  child !  Why  hadn't  she  guessed 
it  ?  A  child !  Perhaps  she,  Janet,  would  have  a  child ! 
This  enlightenment  as  to  Lise's  condition  and  the  possibility 
it  suggested  in  regard  to  herself  brought  with  it  an  over 
whelming  sympathy  which  at  first  she  fiercely  resented  — 
then  yielded  to.  The  bond  between  them,  instead  of  snap 
ping,  had  inexplicably  strengthened.  And  Lise,  despite  her 
degradation,  was  more  than  ever  her  sister!  Forgetting 
her  repugnance  to  the  bed,  Janet  sat  down  beside  Lise  and 
put  an  arm  around  her. 

"  He  said  he'd  marry  me,  he  swore  he  was  rich  —  and 
he  was  a  spender  all  right.  And  then  some  guy  came  up  to 
me  one  night  at  Gruber's  and  told  me  he  was  married  al 
ready." 

"What?"  Janet  exclaimed. 

"Sure!  He's  got  a  wife  and  two  kids  here  in  Boston. 
That  was  a  twenty-one  round  knockout !  Maybe  I  didn't 
have  something  to  tell  him  when  he  blew  into  Hampton  last 


276  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Friday !  But  he  said  he  couldn't  help  it  —  he  loved  me." 
Lise  sat  up,  seemingly  finding  relief  in  the  relation  of  her 
wrongs,  dabbing  her  eyes  with  a  cheap  lace  handkerchief. 
"  Well,  while  he'd  been  away  —  this  thing  came.  I  didn't 
know  what  was  the  matter  at  first,  and  when  I  found  out 
I  was  scared  to  death,  I  was  ready  to  kill  myself.  When  I 
told  him  he  was  scared  too,  and  then  he  said  he'd  fix  it.  Say, 
I  was  a  goat  to  think  he'd  marry  me  I"  Lise  laughed  hysteri 
cally. 

"And  then — "  Janet  spoke  with  difficulty,  "and  then 
you  came  down  here?" 

"I  told  him  he'd  have  to  see  me  through,  I'd  start  some 
thing  if  he  didn't.  Say,  he  almost  got  down  on  his  knees, 
right  there  in  Gruber's !  But  he  came  back  inside  of  ten 
seconds  —  he's  a  jollier,  for  sure,  he  was  right  there  with  the 
goods,  it  was  because  he  loved  me,  he  couldn't  help  himself, 
I  was  his  cutie,  and  all  that  kind  of  baby  talk." 

Lise's  objective  manner  of  speaking  about  her  seducer 
amazed  Janet. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  she  asked. 

"Say,  what  is  love?"  Lise  demanded.  "Do  you  ever  run 
into  it  outside  of  the  movies?  Do  I  love  him?  Well,  he's 
a  good  looker  and  a  fancy  dresser,  he  ain't  a  tight  wad, 
and  he  can  start  a  laugh  every  minute.  If  he  hadn't  put 
it  over  on  me  I  wouldn't  have  been  so  sore.  I  don't  know  — 
he  ain't  so  bad.  He's  weak,  that's  the  trouble  with  him." 

This  was  the  climax  I  Lise's  mental  processes,  her 
tendency  to  pass  from  wild  despair  to  impersonal  comment, 
her  inability,  her  courtesan's  temperament  that  prevented 
her  from  realizing  tragedy  for  more  than  a  moment  at  a 
time  —  even  though  the  tragedy  were  her  own  —  were  in 
comprehensible  to  Janet. 

"Get  on  to  this,"  Lise  adjured  her.  "When  I  first  was 
acquainted  with  him  he  handed  me  a  fairy  tale  that  he  was 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  277 

taking  five  thousand  a  year  from  Humphrey  and  Gillmount, 
he  was  going  into  the  firm.  He  had  me  razzle-dazzled. 
He's  some  hypnotizer  as  a  salesman,  too,  they  say.  Nothing 
was  too  good  for  me;  I  saw  myself  with  a  house  on  the 
avenue  shopping  in  a  limousine.  Well,  he  blew  up,  but  I 
can't  help  liking  him." 

"  Liking  him  ! "  cried  Janet  passionately.  "  I'd  kill  him  — 
that's  what  I'd  do." 

Lise  regarded  her  with  unwilling  admiration. 

"That's  where  you  and  me  is  different,"  she  declared. 
"I  wish  I  was  like  that,  but  I  ain't.  And  where  would  I 
come  in  ?  NowT  you're  wise  why  I  can't  go  back  to  Hampton. 
Even  if  I  was  stuck  on  the  burg  and  cryin'  my  eyes  out  for 
the  Bagatelle  I  couldn't  go  back." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  Janet  demanded. 

"Well,"  said  Lise,  "he's  come  across  —  I'll  say  that  for 
him.  Maybe  it's  because  he's  scared,  but  he's  stuck  on 
me,  too.  When  you  dropped  in  I  was  just  going  down  town 
to  get  a  pair  of  patent  leathers,  these  are  all  wore  out,"  she 
explained,  twisting  her  foot,  "they  ain't  fit  for  Boston. 
And  I  thought  of  lookin'  at  blouses  —  there's  a  sale  on  I 
was  reading  about  in  the  paper.  Say,  it's  great  to  be  on  easy 
street,  to  be  able  to  stay  in  bed  until  you're  good  and  ready 
to  get  up  and  go  shopping,  to  gaze  at  the  girls  behind  the 
counter  and  ask  the  price  of  things.  I'm  going  to  Waiting's, 
and  give  the  salesladies  the  ha-ha  —  that's  what  I'm  going 
to  do." 

"But  — ?"  Janet  found  words  inadequate. 

Lise  understood  her. 

"Oh,  I'm  due  at  the  doctor's  this  afternoon." 

"Where?" 

"The  doctor's.  Don't  you  get  me?  — it's  a  private 
hospital."  Lise  gave  a  slight  shudder  at  the  word,  but 
instantly  recovered  her  sang-froid.  "Howard  fixed  it  up 


278  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

yesterday  —  and  they  say  it  ain't  very  bad  if  you  take  it 
early." 

For  a  space  Janet  was  too  profoundly  shocked  to 
reply. 

"Lise!     That's  a  crime!"  she  cried. 

"Crime,  nothing !"  retorted  Lise,  and  immediately  became 
indignant.  "Say,  I  sometimes  wonder  how  you  could  have 
lived  all  these  years  without  catching  on  to  a  few  things ! 
What  do  you  take  me  for !  What'd  I  do  with  a  baby?" 

What  indeed !  The  thought  came  like  an  avalanche, 
stripping  away  the  veneer  of  beauty  from  the  face  of  the 
world,  revealing  the  scarred  rock  and  crushed  soil  beneath. 
This  was  reality !  What  right  had  society  to  compel  a 
child  to  be  born  to  degradation  and  prostitution  ?  to  beget, 
perhaps,  other  children  of  suffering  ?  Were  not  she  and  Lise 
of  the  exploited,  of  those  duped  and  tempted  by  the  fair 
things  the  more  fortunate  enjoyed  unscathed?  And  now, 
for  their  natural  cravings,  their  family  must  be  disgraced, 
they  must  pay  the  penalty  of  outcasts !  Neither  Lise  nor 
she  had  had  a  chance.  She  saw  that,  now.  The  scorching 
revelation  of  life's  injustice  lighted  within  her  the  fires  of 
anarchy  and  revenge.  Lise,  other  women  might  submit 
tamely  to  be  crushed,  might  be  lulled  and  drugged  by  bribes  : 
she  would  not.  A  wild  desire  seized  her  to  get  back  to 
Hampton. 

"Give  me  the  address  of  the  hospital,"  she  said. 

"Come  off!"  cried  Lise,  in  angry  bravado.  "Do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  let  you  butt  into  this?  I  guess  you've 
got  enough  to  do  to  look  out  for  your  own  business." 

Janet  produced  a  pencil  from  her  bag,  and  going  to  the 
table  tore  off  a  piece  of  the  paper  in  which  had  been  wrapped 
the  candy  box. 

"Give  me  the  address,"  she  insisted. 

"Say,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  279 

"  I  want  to  know  where  you  are,  in  case  anything  happens 
to  you." 

"Anything  happens!  What  do  you  mean?"  Janet's 
words  had  frightened  Lise,  the  withdrawal  of  Janet's  opposi 
tion  bewildered  her.  But  above  all,  she  was  cowed  by  the 
sudden  change  in  Janet  herself,  by  the  attitude  of  steely 
determination  eloquent  of  an  animus  persons  of  Lise's  type 
are  incapable  of  feeling,  and  which  to  them  is  therefore  in 
comprehensible.  "Nothing's  going  to  happen  to  me,"  she 
whined.  "The  place  is  all  right  —  he'd  be  scared  to  send 
me  there  if  it  wasn't.  It  costs  something,  too.  Say,  you 
ain't  going  to  tell  'em  at  home?"  she  cried  with  a  fresh 
access  of  alarm. 

"If  you  do  as  I  say,  I  won't  tell  anybody,"  Janet  replied, 
in  that  odd,  impersonal  tone  her  voice  had  acquired.  "You 
must  wTite  me  as  soon  —  as  soon  as  it  is  over.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Honest  to  God  I  will,"  Lise  assured  her. 

"And  you  mustn't  come  back  to  a  house  like  this." 

"Where'llIgo?"Liseasked. 

"I  don't  know.  We'll  find  out  when  the  time  comes," 
said  Janet,  significantly. 

"You've  seen  him!"    Lise  exclaimed. 

"No,"  said  Janet,  "and  I  don't  want  to  see  him  unless  I 
have  to.  Mr.  Tiernan  has  seen  him.  Mr.  Tiernan  is  down 
stairs  now,  waiting  for  me." 

"Johnny  Tiernan!     Is  Johnny  Tiernan  downstairs?" 

Janet  wrote  the  address,  and  thrust  the  slip  of  paper  in 
her  bag. 

"Good-bye,  Lise,"  she  said.  "I'll  come  down  again  — 
I'll  come  down  whenever  you  want  me."  Lise  suddenly 
seized  her  and  clung  to  her,  sobbing.  For  a  while  Janet 
submitted,  and  then,  kissing  her,  gently  detached  herself. 
She  felt,  indeed,  pity  for  Lise,  but  something  within  her 


280  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

seemed  to  have  hardened  —  something  that  pity  could  not 
melt,  possessing  her  and  thrusting  her  on  to  action.  She  knew 
not  what  action.  So  strong  was  this  thing  that  it  overcame 
and  drove  off  the  evil  spirits  of  that  darkened  house  as 
she  descended  the  stairs  to  join  Mr.  Tiernan,  who  opened 
the  door  for  her  to  pass  out.  Once  in  the  street,  she  breathed 
deeply  of  the  sunlit  air.  Nor  did  she  observe  Mr.  Tiernan's 
glance  of  comprehension.  ...  When  they  arrived  at  the 
North  Station  he  said  :  — 

"You'll  be  wanting  a  bite  of  dinner,  Miss  Janet,"  and  as 
she  shook  her  head  he  did  not  press  her  to  eat.  He  told 
her  that  a  train  for  Hampton  left  in  ten  minutes.  "  I  think 
I'll  stay  in  Boston  the  rest  of  the  day,  as  long  as  I'm  here," 
he  added. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  not  thanked  him,  she  took 
his  hand,  but  he  cut  her  short. 

"It's  glad  I  was  to  help  you,"  he  assured  her.  "And  if 
there's  anything  more  I  can  do,  Miss  Janet,  you'll  be  letting 
me  know  —  you'll  call  on  Johnny  Tiernan,  won't  you  ?" 

He  left  her  at  the  gate.  He  had  intruded  with  no  advice, 
he  had  offered  no  comment  that  she  had  come  downstairs 
alone,  without  Lise.  His  confidence  in  her  seemed  never 
to  have  wavered.  He  had  respected,  perhaps  partly  imagined 
her  feelings,  and  in  spite  of  these  now  a  sense  of  gratitude  to 
him  stole  over  her,  mitigating  the  intensity  of  their  bitter 
ness.  Mr.  Tiernan  alone  seemed  stable  in  a  chaotic  world. 
He  was  a  man. 


No  sooner  was  she  in  the  train,  however,  than  she  forgot 
Mr.  Tiernan  utterly.  Up  to  the  present  the  mental  process 
of  dwelling  upon  her  own  experience  of  the  last  three  months 
had  been  unbearable,  but  now  she  was  able  to  take  a  fearful 
satisfaction  in  the  evolving  of  parallels  between  her  case 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  281 

and  Lise's.  Despite  the  fact  that  the  memories  she  had 
cherished  were  now  become  hideous  things,  she  sought  to 
drag  them  forth  and  compare  them,  ruthlessly,  with  what 
must  have  been  the  treasures  of  Lise.  Were  her  own  any 
less  tawdry?  Only  she,  Janet,  had  been  the  greater  fool  of 
the  two,  the  greater  dupe  because  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
dream,  to  believe  that  what  she  had  done  had  been  for  love, 
for  light  I  because  she  had  not  listened  to  the  warning 
voice  within  her !  It  had  always  been  on  the  little,  unpre 
meditated  acts  of  Ditmar  that  she  had  loved  to  linger,  and 
now,  in  the  light  of  Lise's  testimony,  of  Lise's  experience, 
she  saw  them  all  as  false.  It  seemed  incredible,  now,  that 
she  had  ever  deceived  herself  into  thinking  that  Ditmar 
meant  to  marry  her,  that  he  loved  her  enough  to  make  her 
his  wife.  Xor  was  it  necessary  to  summon  and  marshal 
incidents  to  support  this  view,  they  came  of  themselves, 
crowding  one  another,  a  cumulative  and  appalling  array  of 
evidence,  before  which  she  stood  bitterly  amazed  at  her 
former  stupidity.  And  in  the  events  of  yesterday,  which 
she  pitilessly  reviewed,  she  beheld  a  deliberate  and  pre 
arranged  plan  for  her  betrayal.  Had  he  not  telephoned  to 
Boston  for  the  rooms,  rehearsed  in  his  own  mind  every  detail 
of  what  had  subsequently  happened  ?  Was  there  any  essen 
tial  difference  between  the  methods  of  Ditmar  and  Duval? 
Both  were  skilled  in  the  same  art,  and  Ditmar  was  the  cleverer 
of  the  two.  It  had  only  needed  her  meeting  with  Lise,  in 
that  house,  to  reveal  how  he  had  betrayed  her  faith  and  her 
love,  sullied  and  besmirched  them.  And  then  came  the 
odd  reflection,  —  how  strange  that  that  same  Sunday  had 
been  so  fateful  for  herself  and  Lise ! 

The  agony  of  these  thoughts  was  mitigated  by  the  scorch 
ing  hatred  that  had  replaced  her  love,  the  desire  for  retalia 
tion,  revenge.  Occasionally,  however,  that  stream  of  con 
sciousness  was  broken  bv  the  recollection  of  what  she  had 


282  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

permitted  and  even  advised  her  sister  to  do;  and  though 
the  idea  of  the  place  to  which  Lise  was  going  sickened  her, 
though  she  achieved  a  certain  objective  amazement  at  the 
transformation  in  herself  enabling  her  to  endorse  such  a 
course,  she  was  glad  of  having  endorsed  it,  she  rejoiced  that 
Lise's  child  would  not  be  born  into  a  world  that  had  seemed 
—  so  falsely  —  fair  and  sweet,  and  in  reality  was  black  and 
detestable.  Her  acceptance  of  the  act  —  for  Lise  —  was  a 
function  of  the  hatred  consuming  her,  a  hatred  which,  growing 
in  bigness,  had  made  Ditmar  merely  the  personification  of 
that  world.  From  time  to  time  her  hands  clenched,  her 
brow  furrowed,  powerful  waves  of  heat  ran  through  her, 
the  craving  for  action  became  so  intense  she  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  rising  in  her  seat. 

By  some  odd  whim  of  the  weather  the  wind  had  backed 
around  into  the  east,  gathering  the  clouds  once  more.  The 
brilliancy  of  the  morning  had  given  place  to  greyness,  the 
high  slits  of  windows  seemed  dirtier  than  ever  as  the  train 
pulled  into  the  station  at  Hampton,  shrouded  in  Gothic 
gloom.  As  she  left  the  car  Janet  was  aware  of  the  presence 
on  the  platform  of  an  unusual  number  of  people;  she 
wondered  vaguely,  as  she  pushed  her  way  through  them, 
why  they  were  there,  what  they  were  talking  about?  One 
determination  possessed  her,  to  go  to  the  Chippering  Mill, 
to  Ditmar.  Emerging  from  the  street,  she  began  to  walk 
rapidly,  the  change  from  inaction  to  exercise  bringing  a 
certain  relief,  starting  the  working  of  her  mind,  arousing 
in  her  a  realization  of  the  necessity  of  being  prepared  for 
the  meeting.  Therefore,  instead  of  turning  at  Faber  Street, 
she  crossed  it.  But  at  the  corner  of  the  Common  she  halted, 
her  glance  drawn  by  a  dark  mass  of  people  filling  the  end 
of  Hawthorne  Street,  where  it  was  blocked  by  the  brick- 
coloured  facade  of  the  Clarendon  Mill.  In  the  middle  dis 
tance  men  and  boys  were  running  to  join  this  crowd.  A  girl, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  283 

evidently  an  Irish-American  mill  hand  of  the  higher  paid 
sort,  hurried  toward  her  from  the  direction  of  the  mill  itself. 
Janet  accosted  her. 

"It's  the  strike/'  she  explained  excitedly,  evidently  sur 
prised  at  the  question.  "The  Polaks  and  the  Dagoes  and 
a  lot  of  other  foreigners  quit  when  they  got  their  envelopes 
—  stopped  their  looms  and  started  through  the  mill,  and 
when  they  came  into  our  room  I  left.  I  didn't  want  no 
trouble  with  'em.  It's  the  fifty-four  hour  law  —  their  pay's 
cut  two  hours.  You've  heard  about  it,  I  guess." 

Janet  nodded. 

"They  had  a  big  mass  meeting  last  night  in  Maxwell 
Hall,"  the  girl  continued,  "the  foreigners  —  not  the  skilled 
workers.  And  they  voted  to  strike.  They  tell  me  they're 
walking  out  over  at  the  Patuxent,  too." 

"And  the  Chippering?"  asked  Janet,  eagerly. 

"I  don't  know  —  I  guess  it'll  spread  to  all  of  'em,  the 
way  these  foreigners  are  going  on  —  they're  crazy.  But 
say,"  the  girl  added,  "it  ain't  right  to  cut  our  pay,  either,  is 
it?  They  never  done  it  two  years  ago  when  the  law  came 
down  to  fifty-six." 

Janet  did  not  wait  to  reply.  While  listening  to  this 
explanation,  excitement  had  been  growing  in  her  again,  and 
some  fearful,  overpowering  force  of  attraction  emanating 
from  that  swarm  in  the  distance  drew  her  until  she  yielded, 
fairly  running  past  the  rows  of  Italian  tenements  in  their 
strange  setting  of  snow,  not  to  pause  until  she  reached 
the  fruit  shop  where  she  and  Eda  had  eaten  the  olives. 
Now  she  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  that  packed  itself 
against  the  gates  of  the  Clarendon.  It  spread  over  the 
width  of  East  Street,  growing  larger  every  minute,  until 
presently  she  was  hemmed  in.  Here  and  there  hoarse 
shouts  of  approval  and  cheers  arose  in  response  to  invisible 
orators  haranging  their  audiences  in  weird,  foreign  tongues ; 


284  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

tiny  American  flags  were  waved;  and  suddenly,  in  one  of 
those  unforeseen  and  incomprehensible  movements  to  which 
mobs  are  subject,  a  trolley  car  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
Hawthorne  Street  track  was  surrounded,  the  desperate 
clanging  of  its  bell  keeping  pace  with  the  beating  of  Janet's 
heart.  A  dark  Sicilian,  holding  aloft  the  green,  red,  and 
white  flag  of  Italy,  leaped  on  the  rear  platform  and  began 
to  speak,  the  Slav  conductor  regarding  him  stupidly,  pulling 
the  bellcord  the  while.  Three  or  four  policemen  fought  their 
way  to  the  spot,  striving  to  clear  the  tracks,  bewildered  and 
impotent  in  the  face  of  the  alien  horde  momentarily  growing 
more  and  more  conscious  of  power. 

Janet  pushed  her  way  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  crowd. 
She  wanted  to  savour  to  the  full  its  wrath  and  danger,  to 
surrender  herself  to  be  played  upon  by  these  sallow,  stubby- 
bearded  exhorters,  whose  menacing  tones  and  passionate 
gestures  made  a  grateful  appeal,  whose  wild,  musical  words, 
just  because  they  were  uncomprehended,  aroused  in  her  dim 
suggestions  of  a  race-experience  not  her  own,  but  in  which  she 
was  now  somehow  summoned  to  share.  That  these  were  the 
intruders  whom  she,  as  a  native  American,  had  once  resented 
and  despised  did  not  occur  to  her.  The  racial  sense  so 
strong  in  her  was  drowned  in  a  sense  of  fellowship.  Their 
anger  seemed  to  embody  and  express,  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done,  the  revolt  that  had  been  rising,  rising  within 
her  soul ;  and  the  babel  to  which  she  listened  was  not  a  con 
fusion  of  tongues,  but  one  voice  lifted  up  to  proclaim  the 
wrongs  of  all  the  duped,  of  all  the  exploited  and  oppressed. 
She  wTas  fused  with  them,  their  cause  was  her  cause,  their 
betrayers  her  betrayers. 

Suddenly  wras  heard  the  cry  for  which  she  had  been  tensely 
but  unconsciously  awaiting.  Another  cry  like  that  had  rung 
out  in  another  mob  across  the  seas  more  than  a  century  before. 
"A  la  Bastille  I"  became  "To  the  Chippering !"  Some  man 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  285 

shouted  it  out  in  shrill  English,  hundreds  repeated  it ;  the 
Sicilian  leaped  from  the  trolley  car,  and  his  path  could  be 
followed  by  the  agitated  progress  of  the  alien  banner  he 
bore.  "To  the  Chippering!"  It  rang  in  Janet's  ears 
like  a  call  to  battle.  Was  she  shouting  it,  too  ?  A  galvanic 
thrill  ran  through  the  crowd,  an  impulse  that  turned  their 
faces  and  started  their  steps  down  East  Street  toward  the 
canal,  and  Janet  was  irresistibly  carried  along.  Nay,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  force  that  second  by  second  gained  momen 
tum  was  in  her,  that  she  herself  had  released  and  was  guid 
ing  it !  Her  feet  were  wet  as  she  ploughed  through  the 
trampled  snow,  but  she  gave  no  thought  to  that.  The  odour 
of  humanity  was  in  her  nostrils.  On  the  left  a  gaunt  Jew 
pressed  against  her,  on  the  right  a  solid  Ruthenian  woman, 
one  hand  clasping  her  shawl,  the  other  holding  aloft  a  minia 
ture  emblem  of  New  World  liberty.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  grey  skies,  and  from  time  to  time  her  lips  were  parted 
in  some  strange,  ancestral  chant  that  could  be  heard  above 
the  shouting.  All  about  Janet  were  dark,  awakening 
faces.  .  .  . 

It  chanced  that  an  American,  a  college  graduate,  stood 
gazing  down  from  a  point  of  vantage  upon  this  scene.  He 
was  ignorant  of  anthropology,  psychology,  and  the  phenomena 
of  environment;  but  bits  of  "knowledge"  —  which  he  em 
bodied  in  a  newspaper  article  composed  that  evening  — 
stuck  wax-like  in  his  brain.  Not  thus,  he  deplored,  was  the 
Anglo-Saxon  wont  to  conduct  his  rebellions.  These  Czechs 
and  Slavs,  Hebrews  and  Latins  and  Huns  might  have  appro 
priately  been  clad  in  the  skins  worn  by  the  hordes  of  Attila. 
Had  they  not  been  drawn  hither  by  the  renown  of  the 
Republic's  wealth?  And  how  essentially  did  they  differ 
from  those  other  barbarians  before  whose  bewildered,  lustful 
gaze  had  risen  the  glittering  palaces  on  the  hills  of  the  Tiber? 
The  spoils  of  Rome  !  The  spoils  of  America !  They  appeared 


286  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  him  ferocious,  atavistic  beasts  as  they  broke  into  the  lum 
beryard  beneath  his  window  to  tear  the  cord-wood  from  the 
piles  and  rush  out  again,  armed  with  billets.  .  .  . 

Janet,  in  the  main  stream  sweeping  irresistibly  down  the 
middle  of  the  street,  was  carried  beyond  the  lumberyard 
into  the  narrow  roadway  beside  the  canal  —  presently  to 
find  herself  packed  in  the  congested  mass  in  front  of  the 
bridge  that  led  to  the  gates  of  the  Chippering  Mill.  Across 
the  water,  above  the  angry  hum  of  human  voices  could  be 
heard  the  whirring  of  the  looms,  rousing  the  mob  to  a  higher 
pitch  of  fury.  The  halt  was  for  a  moment  only.  The  bridge 
rocked  beneath  the  weight  of  their  charge,  they  battered  at 
the  great  gates,  they  ran  along  the  snow-filled  tracks  by  the 
wall  of  the  mill.  Some,  in  a  frenzy  of  passion,  hurled  their 
logs  against  the  windows ;  others  paused,  seemingly  to  meas 
ure  the  distance  and  force  of  the  stroke,  thus  lending  to  their 
act  a  more  terrible  and  deliberate  significance.  A  shout 
of  triumph  announced  that  the  gates,  like  a  broken  dam, 
had  given  way,  and  the  torrent  poured  in  between  the  posts, 
flooding  the  yard,  pressing  up  the  towered  stairways  and 
spreading  through  the  compartments  of  the  mill.  More 
ominous  than  the  tumult  seemed  the  comparative  silence 
that  followed  this  absorption  of  the  angry  spirits  of  the 
mob.  Little  by  little,  as  the  power  was  shut  off,  the  antiphonal 
throbbing  of  the  looms  was  stilled.  Pinioned  against  the 
parapet  above  the  canal  —  almost  on  that  very  spot  where, 
the  first  evening,  she  had  met  Ditmar  —  Janet  awaited  her 
chance  to  cross.  Every  crashing  window,  every  resounding 
blow  on  the  panels  gave  her  a  fierce  throb  of  joy.  She  had 
not  expected  the  gates  to  yield  —  her  father  must  have 
insecurely  fastened  them.  Gaining  the  farther  side  of  the 
canal,  she  perceived  him  flattened  against  the  wall  of  the 
gatehouse  shaking  his  fist  in  the  faces  of  the  intruders,  who 
rushed  past  him  unheeding.  His  look  arrested  her.  His 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  287 

face  was  livid,  his  eyes  were  red  with  anger,  he  stood  trans 
formed  by  a  passion  she  had  not  believed  him  to  possess. 
She  had  indeed  heard  him  give  vent  to  a  mitigated  indigna 
tion  against  foreigners  in  general,  but  now  the  old-school 
Americanism  in  which  he  had  been  bred,  the  Americanism  of 
individual  rights>  of  respect  for  the  convention  of  property, 
had  suddenly  sprung  into  flame.  He  was  ready  to  fight  for 
it,  to  die  for  it.  The  curses  he  hurled  at  these  people 
sounded  blasphemous  in  Janet's  ears. 

"  Father ! "  she  cried.     "  Father  ! 

He  looked  at  her  uncomprehendingly,  seemingly  failing 
to  recognize  her. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded,  seizing  her 
and  attempting  to  draw  her  to  the  wall  beside  him.  But 
she  resisted.  There  sprang  from  her  lips  an  unpremeditated 
question:  "Where  is  Mr.  Ditmar?"  She  was,  indeed, 
amazed  at  having  spoken  it. 

"I  don't  know,"  Edward  replied  distractedly.  "We've 
been  looking  for  him  everywhere.  My  God,  to  think  that 
this  should  happen  with  me  at  the  gates!"  he  lamented. 
"Go  home,  Janet.  You  can't  tell  what'll  happen,  what 
these  fiends  will  do,  you  may  get  hurt.  You've  got  no 
business  here."  Catching  sight  of  a  belated  and  breathless 
policeman,  he  turned  from  her  in  desperation.  "Get  'em 
out!  For  God's  sake,  can't  you  get  'em  out  before  they 
ruin  the  machines?" 

But  Janet  waited  no  longer.  Pushing  her  way  frantically 
through  the  people  filling  the  yard  she  climbed  the  tower 
stairs  and  made  her  way  into  one  of  the  spinning  rooms. 
The  frames  were  stilled,  the  overseer  and  second  hands, 
thrust  aside,  looked  on  helplessly  while  the  intruders  ha 
rangued,  cajoled  or  threatened  the  operatives,  some  of  whom 
were  cowed  and  already  departing;  others,  sullen  and  re 
sentful,  remained  standing  in  the  aisles;  and  still  others 


288  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

seemed  to  have  caught  the  contagion  of  the  strike.  Sud 
denly,  with  reverberating  strokes,  the  mill  bells  rang  out,  the 
electric  gongs  chattered,  the  siren  screeched,  drowning  the 
voices.  Janet  did  not  pause,  but  hurried  from  room  to  room 
until,  in  passing  through  an  open  doorway  in  the  weaving 
department  she  ran  into  Mr.  Caldwell.  He  halted  a  moment, 
in  surprise  at  finding  her  there,  calling  her  by  name.  She 
clung  to  his  sleeve,  and  again  she  asked  the  question :  — 

"  Where's  Mr.  Ditmar?" 

Caldwell  shook  his  head.  His  answer  was  the  same  as 
Edward's.  "I  don't  know/'  he  shouted  excitedly  above  the 
noise.  "We've  got  to  get  this  mob  out  before  they  do  any 
damage." 

He  tore  himself  away,  she  saw  him  expostulating  with 
the  overseer,  and  then  she  went  on.  These  tower  stairs, 
she  remembered,  led  to  a  yard  communicating  by  a  little 
gate  with  the  office  entrance.  The  door  of  the  vestibule 
was  closed,  but  the  watchman,  Simmons,  recognizing  her, 
permitted  her  to  enter.  The  offices  were  deserted,  silent, 
for  the  bells  and  the  siren  had  ceased  their  clamour;  the 
stenographers  and  clerks  had  gone.  The  short  day  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  shadows  were  gathering  in  the  corners  of 
Ditmar's  room  as  she  reached  the  threshold  and  gazed  about 
her  at  the  objects  there  so  poignantly  familiar.  She  took 
off  her  coat.  His  desk  was  littered  with  books  and  papers, 
and  she  started,  mechanically,  to  set  it  in  order,  replacing 
the  schedule  books  on  the  shelves,  sorting  out  the  letters  and 
putting  them  in  the  basket.  She  could  not  herself  have  told 
why  she  should  take  up  again  these  trivial  tasks  as  though 
no  cataclysmic  events  had  intervened  to  divide  forever  the 
world  of  yesterday  from  that  of  to-morrow.  With  a  move 
ment  suggestive  of  tenderness  she  was  picking  up  Ditmar's 
pen  to  set  it  in  the  glass  rack  when  her  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  voices,  and  she  stood  transfixed,  listening  intently.  There 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT  289 

were  footsteps  in  the  corridor,  the  voices  came  nearer ;  one, 
loud  and  angered,  she  detected  above  the  others.  It  was 
Ditmar's  !  Nothing  had  happened  to  him  !  Dropping  the 
pen,  she  went  over  to  the  window,  staring  out  over  the  grey 
waters,  trembling  so  violently  that  she  could  scarcely  stand. 

She  did  not  look  around  when  they  entered  the  room  — 
Ditmar,  Caldwell,  Orcutt,  and  evidently  a  few  watchmen 
and  overseers.  Some  one  turned  on  the  electric  switch, 
darkening  the  scene  without.  Ditmar  continued  to  speak 
in  vehement  tones  of  uncontrolled  rage. 

"Why  in  hell  weren't  those  gates  bolted  tight?"  he  de 
manded.  "That's  w^hat  I  want  to  know!  There  was 
plenty  of  time  after  they  turned  the  corner  of  East  Street. 
You  might  have  guessed  what  thay  would  do.  But  instead 
of  that  you  let  'em  into  the  mill  to  shut  off  the  power  and 
intimidate  our  own  people."  He  called  the  strikers  an 
unprintable  name,  and  though  Janet  stood,  with  her  back 
turned,  directly  before  him,  he  gave  no  sign  of  being  aware 
of  her  presence. 

"It  wasn't  the  gatekeeper's  fault,"  she  heard  Orcutt 
reply  in  a  tone  quivering  with  excitement  and  apprehension. 
"  They  really  didn't  give  us  a  chance  —  that's  the  truth. 
They  were  down  Canal  Street  and  over  the  bridge  before  we 
knew  it." 

"  It's  just  as  I've  said  a  hundred  times,"  Ditmar  retorted. 
"  I  can't  afford  to  leave  this  mill  a  minute,  I  can't  trust  any 
body  — "  and  he  broke  out  in  another  tirade  against  the 
intruders.  "By  God,  I'll  fix  'em  for  this  —  I'll  crush  'em. 
And  if  any  operatives  try  to  walk  out  here  I'll  see  that  they 
starve  before  they  get  back  —  after  all  I've  done  for  'em, 
kept  the  mill  going  in  slack  times  just  to  give  'em  work.  If 
they  desert  me  now,  when  I've  got  this  Bradlaugh  order  on 
my  hands  — "  Speech  became  an  inadequate  expression  of 
his  feelings,  and  suddenly  his  eye  fell  on  Janet.  She  had 


290  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

turned,  but  her  look  made  no  impression  on  him.     "  Call  up 
the  Chief  of  Police/'  he  said. 

Automatically  she  obeyed,  getting  the  connection  and 
handing  him  the  receiver,  standing  by  while  he  denounced 
the  incompetence  of  the  department  for  permitting  the  mob 
to  gather  in  East  Street  and  demanded  deputies.  The  veins 
of  his  forehead  were  swollen  as  he  cut  short  the  explanations 
of  the  official  and  asked  for  the  City  Hall.  In  making  an 
appointment  with  the  Mayor  he  reflected  on  the  management 
of  the  city  government.  And  when  Janet  by  his  command 
obtained  the  Boston  office,  he  gave  the  mill  treasurer  a 
heated  account  of  the  afternoon's  occurrences,  explaining 
circumstantially  how,  in  his  absence  at  a  conference  in  the 
Patuxent  Mill,  the  mob  had  gathered  in  East  Street  and 
attacked  the  Chippering ;  and  he  urged  the  treasurer  to  waste 
no  time  in  obtaining  a  force  of  detectives,  in  securing  in 
Boston  and  New  York  all  the  operatives  that  could  be  hired, 
in  order  to  break  the  impending  strike.  Save  for  this  un 
timely  and  unreasonable  revolt  he  was  bent  on  stamping  out, 
for  Ditmar  the  world  to-day  was  precisely  the  same  world 
it  had  been  the  day  before.  It  seemed  incredible  to  Janet 
that  he  could  so  regard  it,  could  still  be  blind  to  the  fact 
that  these  workers  whom  he  was  determined  to  starve  and 
crush  if  they  dared  to  upset  his  plans  and  oppose  his  will 
were  human  beings  with  wills  and  passions  and  grievances 
of  their  own.  Until  to-day  her  eyes  had  been  sealed.  In 
agony  they  had  been  opened  to  the  panorama  of  sorrow  and 
suffering,  of  passion  and  evil ;  and  what  she  beheld  now  as 
life  was  a  vast  and  terrible  cruelty.  She  had  needed  only 
this  final  proof  to  be  convinced  that  in  his  eyes  she  also 
was  but  one  of  those  brought  into  the  world  to  minister  to 
his  pleasure  and  profit.  He  had  taken  from  her,  as  his  meed, 
the  most  precious  thing  a  woman  has  to  give,  and  now  that 
she  was  here  again  at  his  side,  by  some  impulse  incompre- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  291 

hensible  to  herself  —  in  spite  of  the  wrong  he  had  done 
her  1  —  had  sought  him  out  in  danger,  he  had  no  thought  of 
her,  no  word  for  her,  no  use  save  a  menial  one :  he  cared 
nothing  for  any  help  she  might  be  able  to  give,  he  had  no 
perception  of  the  new  light  which  had  broken  within  her 
soul.  .  .  .  The  telephoning  seemed  interminable,  yet  she 
waited  with  a  strange  patience  while  he  talked  with  Mr. 
George  Chippering  and  two  of  the  most  influential  directors. 
These  conversations  had  covered  the  space  of  an  hour  or 
more.  And  perhaps  as  a  result  of  self-suggestion,  of  his 
repeated  assurances  to  Mr.  Semple,  to  Mr.  Chippering,  and 
the  directors  of  his  ability  to  control  the  situation,  Ditmar's 
habitual  self-confidence  was  gradually  restored.  And  when 
at  last  he  hung  up  the  instrument  and  turned  to  her,  though 
still  furious  against  the  strikers,  his  voice  betrayed  the  joy 
of  battle,  the  assurance  of  victory. 

"They  can't  bluff  me,  they'll  have  to  guess  again.  It's 
that  damned  Holster  —  he  hasn't  any  guts  —  he'd  give  in  to 
'em  right  now  if  I'd  let  him.  It's  the  limit  the  way  he  turned 
the  Clarendon  over  to  them.  I'll  show  him  how  to  put  a 
crimp  in  'em  if  they  don't  turn  up  here  to-morrow  morning." 

He  was  so  magnificently  sure  of  her  sympathy !  She  did 
not  reply,  but  picked  up  her  coat  from  the  chair  where  she 
had  laid  it. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded.  And  she  replied 
laconically,  "Home." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  rising  and  taking  a  step  toward 
her. 

"  You  have  an  appointment  with  the  Mayor,"  she  reminded 
him. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  clock  over  the  door. 
"  Where  have  you  been  ?  —  where  were  you  this  morning  ? 
I  was  worried  about  you,  I  —  I  was  afraid  you  might  be 
sick." 


292  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Were  you?"  she  said.  "I'm  all  right.  I  had  business 
in  Boston." 

"Why  didn't  you  telephone  me?  In  Boston?"  he 
repeated. 

She  nodded.  He  started  forward  again,  but  she  avoided 
him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  cried.  "I've  been  worried 
about  you  all  day  —  until  this  damned  strike  broke  loose. 
I  was  afraid  something  had  happened." 

"You  might  have  asked  my  father,"  she  said. 

"For  God's  sake,  tell  me  what's  the  matter!" 

His  desire  for  her  mounted  as  his  conviction  grew  more 
acute  that  something  had  happened  to  disturb  a  relationship 
which,  he  had  congratulated  himself,  after  many  vicissitudes 
and  anxieties  had  at  last  been  established.  He  was  conscious, 
however,  of  irritation  because  this  whimsical  and  unantici 
pated  grievance  of  hers  should  have  developed  at  the  moment 
when  the  caprice  of  his  operatives  threatened  to  interfere 
with  his  cherished  plans  —  for  Ditmar  measured  the  incon 
sistencies  of  humanity  by  the  yardstick  of  his  desires.  Her 
question  as  to  why  he  had  not  made  inquiries  of  her  father 
added  a  new  element  to  his  disquietude.  As  he  stood  thus, 
worried,  exasperated,  and  perplexed,  the  fact  that  there  was 
in  her  attitude  something  ominous,  dangerous,  was  slow  to 
dawn  on  him.  His  faculties  were  wholly  unprepared  for 
the  blow  she  struck  him. 

"I  hate  you !"  she  said.  She  did  not  raise  her  voice,  but 
the  deliberate,  concentrated  conviction  she  put  into  the  sen 
tence  gave  it  the  dynamic  quality  of  a  bullet.  And  save  for 
the  impact  of  it  —  before  which  he  physically  recoiled  —  its 
import  was  momentarily  without  meaning. 

"What?"  he  exclaimed,  stupidly. 

"  I  might  have  known  you  never  meant  to  marry  me,"  she 
went  on.  Her  hands  were  busy  with  the  buttons  of  her  coat. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  293 

"All  you  want  is  to  use  me,  to  enjoy  me  and  turn  me  out 
when  you  get  tired  of  me  —  the  way  you've  done  with  other 
women.  It's  just  the  same  with  these  mill  hands,  they're 
not  human  beings  to  you,  they're  —  they're  cattle.  If  they 
don't  do  as  you  like,  you  turn  them  out ;  you  say  they  can 
starve  for  all  you  care." 

"For  God's  sake,  what  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 
"  What  have  I  done  to  you,  Janet  ?  I  love  you,  I  need  you  ! " 

"Love  me!"  she  repeated.  "I  know  how  men  of  your 
sort  love  —  I've  seen  it  —  I  know.  As  long  as  I  give  you 
what  you  want  and  don't  bother  you,  you  love  me.  And 
I  know  how  these  workers  feel,"  she  cried,  with  sudden, 
passionate  vehemence.  "I  never  knew  before,  but  I  know 
now.  I've  been  with  them,  I  marched  up  here  with  them 
from  the  Clarendon  when  they  battered  in  the  gates  and 
smashed  your  windows  —  and  I  wanted  to  smash  your 
windows,  too,  to  blow  up  your  mill." 

"  WTiat  are  you  saying  ?  You  came  here  with  the  strikers  ? 
you  were  with  that  mob?"  asked  Ditmar,  astoundedly. 

"Yes,  I  was  in  that  mob.  I  belong  there,  with  them, 
I  tell  you  —  I  don't  belong  here,  with  you.  But  I  was  a 
fool  even  then,  I  was  afraid  they'd  hurt  you,  I  came  into 
the  mill  to  find  you,  and  you  —  and  you  —  you  acted  as  if 
you'd  never  seen  me  before.  I  was  a  fool,  but  I'm  glad  I 
came  —  I'm  glad  I  had  a  chance  to  tell  you  this." 

"My  God  —  won't  you  trust  me?"  he  begged,  with  a 
tremendous  effort  to  collect  himself.  "You  trusted  me 
yesterday.  What's  happened  to  change  you?  Won't  you 
tell  me  ?  It's  nothing  I've  done  —  I  swear.  And  what  do 
you  mean  when  you  say  you  were  in  that  mob  ?  I  was  almost 
crazy  when  I  came  back  and  found  they'd  been  here  in  this 
mill  —  can't  you  understand?  It  wasn't  that  I  didn't 
think  of  you.  I'd  been  worrying  about  you  all  day.  Look 
at  this  thing  sensibly.  I  love  you,  I  can't  get  along  with- 


294  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

out  you  —  I'll  marry  you.  I  said  I  would,  I  meant  it  — 
I'll  marry  you  just  as  soon  as  I  can  clean  up  this  mess  of  a 
strike.  It  won't  take  long." 

"  Don't  touch  me  ! "  she  commanded,  and  he  recoiled  again. 
"  I'll  tell  you  where  I've  been,  if  you  want  to  know,  —  I've 
been  to  see  my  sister  in  —  in  a  house,  in  Boston.  I  guess 
you  know  what  kind  of  a  house  I  mean,  you've  been  in  them, 
you've  brought  women  to  them,  —  just  like  the  man  that 
brought  her  there.  Would  you  marry  me  now  —  with  my 
sister  there  ?  And  am  I  any  different  from  her  ?  You  — 
you've  made  me  just  like  her."  Her  voice  had  broken, 
now,  into  furious,  uncontrolled  weeping  to  which  she  paid 
no  heed. 

Ditmar  was  stunned ;  he  could  only  stare  at  her. 

"  If  I  have  a  child,"  she  said,  "  I'll  —  I'll  kill  you  -—  I'll 
kill  myself." 

And  before  he  could  reply  —  if  indeed  he  had  been  able 
to  reply  —  she  had  left  the  office  and  was  running  down  the 
stairs.  , 


CHAPTER  XIV 

1 

WHAT  was  happening  to  Hampton?  Some  hundreds  of 
ignorant  foreigners,  dissatisfied  with  the  money  in  their 
pay  envelopes,  had  marched  out  of  the  Clarendon  Mill  and 
attacked  the  Chippering  —  and  behold,  the  revered  struc 
ture  of  American  Government  had  quivered  and  tumbled 
down  like  a  pack  of  cards !  Despite  the  feverish  assurances 
in  the  Banner  "extra"  that  the  disturbance  was  merely 
local  and  temporary,  solid  citizens  became  panicky,  vaguely 
apprehending  the  release  of  elemental  forces  hitherto  un 
recognized  and  unknown.  Who  was  to  tell  these  solid,  edu 
cated  business  men  that  the  crazy  industrial  Babel  they  had 
helped  to  rear,  and  in  which  they  unconsciously  dwelt,  was 
no  longer  the  simple  edifice  they  thought  it  ?  that  Authority, 
spelled  with  a  capital,  was  a  thing  of  the  past  ?  that  human 
instincts  suppressed  become  explosives  to  displace  the  strata 
of  civilization  and  change  the  face  of  the  world  ?  that  con 
ventions  and  institutions,  laws  and  decrees  crumble  before 
the  whirlwind  of  human  passions  ?  that  their  city  was  not  of 
special,  but  of  universal  significance  ?  And  how  were  these, 
who  still  believed  themselves  to  be  dwelling  under  the  old 
dispensation,  to  comprehend  that  environments  change, 
and  changing  demand  new  and  terrible  Philosophies? 
When  night  fell  on  that  fateful  Tuesday  the  voice  of  Syndi 
calism  had  been  raised  in  a  temple  dedicated  to  ordered, 
Anglo-Saxon  liberty  —  the  Hampton  City  Hall. 

Only  for  a  night  and  a  day  did  the  rebellion  lack  both 

00  X 


296  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

a  leader  and  a  philosophy.  Meanwhile,  in  obedience  to  the 
unerring  instinct  for  drama  peculiar  to  great  metropolitan 
dailies,  newspaper  correspondents  were  alighting  from  every 
train,  interviewing  officials  and  members  of  labour  unions 
and  mill  agents  :  interviewing  Claude  Ditmar,  the  strongest 
man  in  Hampton  that  day.  He  at  least  knew  what  ought 
to  be  done,  and  even  before  his  siren  broke  the  silence  of  the 
morning  hours  in  vigorous  and  emphatic  terms  he  had  in 
formed  the  Mayor  and  Council  of  their  obvious  duty.  These 
strikers  were  helots,  unorganized  scum;  the  regular  unions 
—  by  comparison  respectable  —  held  aloof  from  them. 
Here,  in  effect,  was  his  argument :  a  strong  show  of  force 
was  imperative ;  if  the  police  and  deputies  were  inadequate, 
request  the  Governor  to  call  out  the  local  militia ;  but  above 
all,  waste  no  time,  arrest  the  ringleaders,  the  plotters,  break 
up  all  gatherings,  keep  the  streets  clear.  He  demanded 
from  the  law  protection  of  his  property,  protection  for  those 
whose  right  to  continue  at  work  was  inalienable.  He  was 
listened  to  with  sympathy  and  respect  —  but  nothing  was 
done !  The  world  had  turned  upside  down  indeed  if  the 
City  Government  of  Hampton  refused  to  take  the  advice 
of  the  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill !  American  institutions 
were  a  failure !  But  such  was  the  fact.  Some  unnamed 
fear,  outweighing  their  dread  of  the  retributions  of  Capital, 
possessed  these  men,  made  them  supine,  derelict  in  the  face 
of  their  obvious  duty. 

By  the  faint  grey  light  of  that  bitter  January  morning 
Ditmar  made  his  way  to  the  mill.  In  Faber  Street  dark 
figures  flitted  silently  across  the  ghostly  whiteness  of  the 
snow,  and  gathered  in  groups  on  the  corners ;  seeking  to 
avoid  these,  other  figures  hurried  along  the  sidewalks  close 
to  the  buildings,  to  be  halted,  accosted,  pleaded  with  — 
threatened,  perhaps.  Picketing  had  already  begun !  The 
effect  of  this  pantomime  of  the  eternal  struggle  for  survival. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  297 

which  he  at  first  beheld  from  a  distance,  was  to  exaggerate 
appallingly  the  emptiness  of  the  wide  street,  to  emphasize 
the  absence  of  shoppers  and  vehicles ;  and  a  bluish  darkness 
lurked  in  the  stores,  whose  plate  glass  windows  were  frosted 
in  quaint  designs.  Where  were  the  police  ?  It  was  not  fear 
that  Ditmar  felt,  he  was  galvanized  and  dominated  by  anger, 
by  an  overwhelming  desire  for  action ;  physical  combat 
would  have  brought  him  relief,  and  as  he  quickened  his 
steps  he  itched  to  seize  with  his  own  hands  these  foreigners 
who  had  dared  to  interfere  with  his  cherished  plans,  who  had 
had  the  audacity  to  challenge  the  principles  of  his  gov 
ernment  which  welcomed  them  to  its  shores.  He  would 
have  liked  to  wring  their  necks.  His  philosophy,  too,  was 
environmental.  And  beneath  this  wrath,  stimulating  and 
energizing  it  the  more,  was  the  ache  in  his  soul  from  the  loss 
for  which  he  held  these  enemies  responsible.  Two  days  ago 
happiness  and  achievement  had  both  been  within  his  grasp. 
The  only  woman  —  so  now  it  seemed  —  he  had  ever  really 
wanted !  What  had  become  of  her  ?  What  obscure  and 
passionate  impulse  had  led  her  suddenly  to  defy  and  desert 
him,  to  cast  in  her  lot  with  these  insensate  aliens?  A 
hundred  times  during  the  restless,  inactive  hours  of  a  sleep 
less  night  this  question  had  intruded  itself  in  the  midst  of 
his  scheming  to  break  the  strike,  as  he  reviewed,  word  by 
word,  act  by  act,  that  almost  incomprehensible  revolt  of 
hers  which  had  followed  so  swiftly  —  a  final,  vindictive 
blow  of  fate  —  on  that  other  revolt  of  the  workers.  At 
moments  he  became  confused,  unable  to  separate  the  two. 
He  saw  her  fire  in  that  other.  .  .  .  Her  sister,  she  had 
said,  had  been  disgraced ;  she  had  defied  him  to  marry  her 
in  the  face  of  that  degradation  —  and  this  suddenly  had 
sickened  him.  He  had  let  her  go.  What  a  fool  he  had 
been  to  let  her  go  !  Had  she  herself  been  — !  He  did  not 
finish  this  thought.  Throughout  the  long  night  he  had 


298  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

known,  for  a  certainty,  that  this  woman  was  a  vital  part  of 
him,  flame  of  his  flame.  Had  he  never  seen  her  he  would 
have  fought  these  strikers  to  their  knees,  but  now  the  force 
of  this  incentive  was  doubled.  He  would  never  yield  until 
he  had  crushed  them,  until  he  had  reconquered  her. 

He  was  approaching  one  of  the  groups  of  strikers,  and 
unconsciously  he  slowed  his  steps.  The  whites  of  his  eyes 
reddened.  The  great  coat  of  golden  fur  he  wore  gave  to 
his  aspect  an  added  quality  of  formidableness.  There  were 
some  who  scattered  as  he  drew  near,  and  of  the  less  timorous 
spirits  that  remained  only  a  few  raised  dark,  sullen  glances 
to  encounter  his,  which  was  unflinching,  passionately  con 
temptuous.  Throughout  the  countless  generations  that 
lay  behind  them  the  instinct  of  submission  had  played  its 
dominant,  phylogenetic  role.  He  was  the  Master.  The 
journey  across  the  seas  had  not  changed  that.  A  few  shiv 
ered  —  not  alone  because  they  were  thinly  clad.  He  walked 
on,  slowly,  past  other  groups,  turned  the  corner  of  West 
Street,  where  the  groups  were  more  numerous,  while  the 
number  of  those  running  the  gantlet  had  increased.  And 
he  heard,  twice  or  thrice,  the  word  "Scab  1"  cried  out  men 
acingly.  His  eyes  grew  redder  still  as  he  spied  a  policeman 
standing  idly  in  a  doorway. 

"Why  in  hell  don't  you  do  your  duty?"  he  demanded. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  letting  them  interfere  with  these 
workers?" 

The  man  flinched.  He  was  apologetic.  "So  long  as 
they're  peaceable,  Mr.  Ditmar  —  those  are  my  orders.  I 
do  try  to  keep  'em  movin'." 

"Your  orders?  You're  a  lot  of  damned  cowards,"  Dit 
mar  replied,  and  went  on.  There  were  mutterings  here; 
herded  together,  these  slaves  were  bolder;  and  hunger 
and  cold,  discouragement  at  not  being  able  to  stop  the  flow 
toward  the  mills  were  having  their  effect.  By  the  frozen 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  299 

canal,  the  scene  of  the  onslaught  of  yesterday,  the  crowd  had 
grown  comparatively  thick,  and  at  the  corner  of  the  lodging- 
house  row  Ditmar  halted  a  moment,  unnoticed  save  by  a 
few  wha  nudged  one  another  and  murmured.  He  gave  them 
no  attention,  he  was  trying  to  form  an  estimate  of  the 
effect  of  the  picketing  on  his  own  operatives.  Some  came 
with  timid  steps;  others,  mostly  women,  fairly  ran;  still 
others  were  self-possessed,  almost  defiant  —  and  such  he 
marked.  There  were  those  who,  when  the  picketers  held 
them  by  the  sleeve,  broke  precipitately  from  their  annoyers, 
and  those  who  hesitated,  listening  with  troubled  faces, 
with  feelings  torn  between  dread  of  hunger  for  themselves 
and  their  children  and  sympathy  with  the  revolt.  A  small 
number  joined  the  ranks  of  the  picketers.  Ditmar  towered 
above  these  foreigners,  who  were  mostly  undersized :  a 
student  of  human  nature  and  civilization,  free  from  industrial 
complexes,  would  from  that  point  of  vantage  have  had  much 
to  gather  from  the  expressions  coming  within  his  view,  but 
to  Ditmar  humanity  was  a  means  to  an  end.  Suddenly, 
from  the  cupolas  above  the  battlement  of  the  mill,  the  bells 
shattered  the  early  morning  air,  the  remnant  of  the  workers 
hastened  across  the  canal  and  through  the  guarded  gates, 
which  were  instantly  closed.  Ditmar  was  left  alone  among 
the  strikers.  As  he  moved  toward  the  bridge  they  made  a 
lane  for  him  to  pass ;  one  or  two  he  thrust  out  of  his  way. 
But  there  were  mutterings,  and  from  the  sidewalk  he  heard 
a  man  curse  him. 


Perhaps  we  shall  understand  some  day  that  the  social 
body,  also,  is  subject  to  the  operation  of  cause  and  effect. 
It  was  not  what  an  ingenuous  orthodoxy,  keeping  alive  the 
fate  of  the  ancient  city  from  which  Lot  fled,  would  call  the 
wrath  of  heaven  that  visited  Hampton,  although  a  sermon 


300  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

on  these  lines  was  delivered  from  more  than  one  of  her 
pulpits  on  the  following  Sunday.  Let  us  surmise,  rather, 
that  a  decrepit  social  system  in  a  moment  of  lowered  vi 
tality  becomes  an  easy  prey  to  certain  diseases  which  re 
spectable  communities  are  not  supposed  to  have.  The  germ 
of  a  philosophy  evolved  in  decadent  Europe  flies  across  the 
sea  to  prey  upon  a  youthful  and  vigorous  America,  lodging 
as  host  wherever  industrial  strife  has  made  congenial  soil. 
In  four  and  twenty  hours  Hampton  had  "  caught "  Syndi 
calism.  All  day  Tuesday,  before  the  true  nature  of  the 
affection  was  developed,  prominent  citizens  were  outraged 
and  appalled  by  the  supineness  of  their  municipal  phago 
cytes.  Property,  that  sacred  fabric  of  government,  had 
been  attacked  and  destroyed,  law  had  been  defied,  and  yet 
the  City  Hall,  the  sanctuary  of  American  tradition,  was 
turned  over  to  the  alien  mob  for  a  continuous  series  of  mass 
meetings.  All  day  long  that  edifice,  hitherto  chastely  fa 
miliar  with  American  doctrine  alone,  with  patriotic  oratory, 
with  perorations  that  dwelt  upon  the  wrongs  and  woes  of 
Ireland  —  part  of  our  national  propaganda  —  all  day  long 
that  edifice  rang  with  strange,  exotic  speech,  sometimes 
guttural,  often  musical,  but  always  impassioned,  weirdly 
cadenced  and  intoned.  From  the  raised  platform,  in  place 
of  the  shrewd,  matter-of-fact  New  England  politician  alive 
to  the  vote-getting  powers  of  Fourth  of  July  patriotism,  in 
place  of  the  vehement  but  fun-loving  son  of  Erin,  men  with 
wild,  dark  faces,  with  burning  black  eyes  and  unkempt  hair, 
unshaven,  flannel  shirted  —  made  more  alien,  paradoxically, 
by  their  conventional,  ready-made  American  clothes  —  gave 
tongue  to  the  inarticulate  aspirations  of  the  peasant  drudge  of 
Europe.  From  lands  long  steeped  in  blood  they  came,  from 
low  countries  by  misty  northern  seas,  from  fair  and  ancient 
plains  of  Lombardy,  from  Guelph  and  Ghibelline  hamlets 
in  the  Apennines,  from  vine-covered  slopes  in  Sicily  and 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  301 

Greece;  from  the  Balkans,  from  Caucasus  and  Carpathia, 
from  the  mountains  of  Lebanon,  whose  cedars  lined  the 
palaces  of  kings;  and  from  villages  beside  swollen  rivers 
that  cross  the  dreary  steppes.  Each  peasant  listened  to  a 
recital  in  his  own  tongue  —  the  tongue  in  which  the  folklore, 
the  cradle  sayings  of  his  race  had  been  preserved  —  of  the 
common  wrongs  of  all,  of  misery  still  present,  of  happiness 
still  unachieved  in  this  land  of  liberty  and  opportunity  they 
had  found  a  mockery;  to  appeals  to  endure  and  suffer  for 
a  common  cause.  But  who  was  to  weld  together  this  medley 
of  races  and  traditions,  to  give  them  the  creed  for  which 
their  passions  were  prepared,  to  lead  into  battle  these  ig 
norant  and  unskilled  from  whom  organized  labour  held  aloof  ? 
Even  as  dusk  was  falling,  even  as  the  Mayor,  the  Hon. 
Michael  McGrath,  was  making  from  the  platform  an  elo 
quent  plea  for  order  and  peace,  promising  a  Committee  of 
Arbitration  and  thinking  about  soldiers,  the  leader  and  the 
philosophy  were  landing  in  Hampton. 

The  "five  o'clock"  edition  of  the  Banner  announced  him, 
Antonio  Antonelli,  of  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World! 
An  ominous  name,  an  ominous  title,  —  compared  by  a  well- 
known  publicist  to  the  sound  of  a  fire-bell  in  the  night. 
The  Industrial  Workers,  not  of  America,  but  of  the  World! 
No  wonder  it  sent  shivers  down  the  spine  of  Hampton ! 
The  writer  of  the  article  in  the  Banner  was  unfamiliar  with 
the  words  "syndicalism"  and  "sabotage,"  or  the  phrase 
"direct  action,"  he  was  too  young  to  know  the  history  of 
the  Knights,  he  had  never  heard  of  a  philosophy  of  labour, 
or  of  Sorel  or  Pouget,  but  the  West  he  had  heard  of,  —  the 
home  of  lawlessness,  of  bloodshed,  rape,  and  murder.  For 
obvious  reasons  he  did  not  betray  this  opinion,  but  for  him 
the  I.W.W.  was  born  in  the  West,  where  it  had  ravaged 
and  wrecked  communities.  His  article  was  guardedly  re 
spectful,  but  he  ventured  to  remind  his  readers  that  Mr. 


302  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Antonelli  had  been  a  leader  in  some  of  these  titanic  struggles 
between  crude  labour  and  capital  —  catastrophes  that 
hitherto  had  seemed  to  the  citizens  of  Hampton  as  remote 
as  Kansas  cyclones.  .  .  . 

Some  of  the  less  timorous  of  the  older  inhabitants,  curious 
to  learn  what  doctrine  this  interloper  had  to  proclaim, 
thrust  their  way  that  evening  into  the  City  Hall,  which  was 
crowded,  as  the  papers  said,  "to  suffocation/'  Not  pre 
possessing,  this  modern  Robespierre;  younger  than  he 
looked,  for  life  had  put  its  mark  on  him ;  once,  in  the  days 
of  severe  work  in  the  mines,  his  body  had  been  hard,  and 
now  had  grown  stout.  In  the  eyes  of  a  complacent,  arm 
chair  historian  he  must  have  appeared  one  of  the  strange 
and  terrifying  creatures  which,  in  times  of  upheaval,  are 
thrust  from  the  depths  of  democracies  to  the  surface,  with 
gifts  to  voice  the  longings  and  passions  of  those  below.  He 
did  not  blink  in  the  light ;  he  was  sure  of  himself,  he  had  a 
creed  and  believed  in  it;  he  gazed  around  him  with  the 
leonine  stare  of  the  conqueror,  and  a  hush  came  over  the 
hall  as  he  arose.  His  speech  was  taken  down  verbatim,  to  be 
submitted  to  the  sharpest  of  legal  eyes,  when  was  discov 
ered  the  possession  of  a  power  —  rare  among  agitators  —  to 
pour  forth  in  torrents  apparently  unpremeditated  appeals, 
to  skirt  the  border  of  sedition  and  never  transgress  it,  to 
weigh  his  phrases  before  he  gave  them  birth,  and  to  remember 
them.  If  he  said  an  incendiary  thing  one  moment  he  quali 
fied  it  the  next;  he  justified  violence  only  to  deprecate  it; 
and  months  later,  when  on  trial  for  his  life  and  certain  re 
marks  were  quoted  against  him,  he  confounded  his  prose 
cutors  by  demanding  the  contexts.  Skilfully,  always  within 
the  limits  of  their  intelligence,  he  outlined  to  his  hearers  his 
philosophy  and  proclaimed  it  as  that  of  the  world's  oppressed. 
Their  cause  was  his  —  the  cause  of  human  progress ;  he 
universalized  it.  The  world  belonged  to  the  "producer,"  if 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  303 

only  he  had  the  courage  to  take  possession  of  his  own.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  the  inspirer  was  transformed  into  the  man  of 
affairs  who  calmly  proposed  the  organization  of  a  strike  com 
mittee,  three  members  of  which  were  to  be  chosen  by  each 
nationality.  And  the  resolution,  translated  into  many 
tongues,  was  adopted  amidst  an  uproar  of  enthusiasm. 
Lentil  that  moment  the  revolt  had  been  personal,  local, 
founded  on  a  particular  grievance  which  had  to  do  with  wages 
and  the  material  struggle  for  existence.  Now  all  was 
changed;  now  they  were  convinced  that  the  deprivation 
and  suffering  to  which  they  had  pledged  themselves  were 
not  for  selfish  ends  alone,  but  also  vicarious,  dedicated  to 
the  liberation  of  all  the  downtrodden  of  the  earth.  An- 
tonelli  became  a  saviour ;  they  reached  out  to  touch  him  as 
he  passed ;  they  trooped  into  the  snowy  street,  young  men 
and  old,  and  girls,  and  women  holding  children  in  their  arms, 
their  faces  alight  with  something  never  known  or  felt  before. 
Such  was  Antonelli  to  the  strikers.  But  to  those  staid 
residents  of  Hampton  who  had  thought  themselves  still  to 
be  living  in  the  old  New  England  tradition,  he  was  the  genius 
of  an  evil  dream.  Hard  on  his  heels  came  a  nightmare 
troop,  whose  coming  brought  to  the  remembrance  of  the 
imaginative  the  old  nursery  rhyme  :  — 

"Hark !  Hark  !  The  dogs  do  bark, 
The  beggars  are  come  to  town." 

It  has,  indeed,  a  knell-like  ring.  Do  philosophies  tend  also 
to  cast  those  who  adopt  them  into  a  mould  ?  These  were  of 
the  self-same  breed,  indubitably  the  followers  of  Antonelli. 
The  men  wore  their  hair  long,  affected,  like  their  leader, 
soft  felt  hats  and  loose  black  ties  that  fell  over  the  lapels 
of  their  coats.  Loose  morals  and  loose  ties !  The  projec 
tion  of  these  against  a  Puritan  background  !  Ties  symboli 
cal  of  everything  the  Anglo-Saxon  shudders  at  and  abhors ; 


304  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

of  anarchy  and  mob  rule,  of  bohemia  and  vagabondia,  of 
sedition  and  murder,  of  Latin  revolutions  and  reigns  of 
terror ;  of  sex  irregularity  —  not  of  the  clandestine  sort  to 
be  found  in  decent  communities  —  but  of  free  love  that 
flaunts  itself  in  the  face  of  an  outraged  public.  For  there 
were  women  in  the  band.  All  this,  and  more,  the  invaders 
suggested  —  atheism,  unfamiliarity  with  soap  and  water, 
and,  more  vaguely,  an  exotic  poetry  and  art  that  to  the 
virile  of  American  descent  is  saturated  with  something 
indefinable  yet  abhorrent.  Such  things  are  felt.  Few  of 
the  older  citizens  of  Hampton  were  able  to  explain  why  some 
thing  rose  in  their  gorges,  why  they  experienced  a  new  and 
clammy  quality  of  fear  and  repulsion  when,  on  the  day 
following  Antonelli's  advent,  these  strangers  arrived  from 
nowhere  to  install  themselves  —  with  no  baggage  to  speak  of 
—  in  Hampton's  more  modest  but  hitherto  respectable 
hostelries.  And  no  sooner  had  the  city  been  rudely  awak 
ened  to  the  perilous  presence,  in  overwhelming  numbers,  of 
ignorant  and  inflammable  foreigners  than  these  turned  up 
and  presumed  to  lead  the  revolt,  to  make  capital  out  of  it, 
to  interpret  it  in  terms  of  an  exotic  and  degenerate  creed. 
Hampton  would  take  care  of  itself  —  or  else  the  sovereign 
state  within  whose  borders  it  was  would  take  care  of  it. 
And  his  Honour  the  Mayor,  who  had  proclamed  his  faith 
in  the  reasonableness  of  the  strikers,  who  had  scorned  the 
suggestions  of  indignant  inhabitants  that  the  Governor  be 
asked  for  soldiers,  twenty-four  hours  too  late  arranged  for 
the  assembly  of  three  companies  of  local  militia  in  the 
armory,  and  swore  in  a  hundred  extra  police. 


The  hideous  stillness  of  Fillmore  Street  was  driving  Janet 
mad.    What  she  burned  to  do  was  to  go  to  Boston  and 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  305 

take  a  train  for  somewhere  in  the  West,  to  lose  herself,  never 
to  see  Hampton  again.  But  —  there  was  her  mother. 
She  could  not  leave  Hannah  in  these  empty  rooms,  alone; 
and  Edward  was  to  remain  at  the  mill,  to  eat  and  sleep 
there,  until  the  danger  of  the  strike  had  passed.  A 
messenger  had  come  to  fetch  his  clothes.  After  leaving 
Ditmar  in  the  office  of  the  mill,  Janet  crept  up  the  dark 
stairs  to  the  flat  and  halted  in  the  hallway.  Through  the 
open  doorway  of  the  dining-room  she  saw  Hannah  seated 
on  the  horsehair  sofa  —  for  the  first  time  within  memory 
idle  at  this  hour  of  the  day.  Nothing  else  could  have 
brought  home  to  her  like  this  the  sheer  tragedy  of  their 
plight.  Until  then  Janet  had  been  sustained  by  anger  and 
excitement,  by  physical  action.  She  thought  Hannah  was 
staring  at  her ;  after  a  moment  it  seemed  that  the  widened 
pupils  were  fixed  hi  fascination  on  something  beyond,  on 
the  Thing  that  had  come  to  dwell  here  with  them  forever. 

Janet  entered  the  room.  She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and 
took  her  mother's  hand  hi  hers.  And  Hannah  submitted 
passively.  Janet  could  not  speak.  A  minute  might  have 
passed,  and  the  silence,  which  neither  had  broken,  acquired 
an  intensity  that  to  Janet  became  unbearable.  Never  had 
the  room  been  so  still !  Her  glance,  raised  instinctively  to 
the  face  of  the  picture-clock,  saw  the  hands  pointing  to 
ten.  Every  Monday  morning,  as  far  back  as  she  could  recall, 
her  father  had  wound  it  before  going  to  work  —  and  to-day 
he  had  forgotten.  Getting  up,  she  opened  the  glass  door, 
and  stood  trying  to  estimate  the  hour:  it  must  be,  she 
thought,  about  six.  She  set  the  hands,  took  the  key  from 
the  nail  above  the  shelf,  wound  up  the  weight,  and  started 
the  pendulum.  And  the  sound  of  familiar  ticking  was  a 
relief,  releasing  at  last  her  inhibited  powers  of  speech. 
"Mother,"  she  said,  "I'll  get  some  supper  for  you." 
On  Hannah,  these  simple  words  had  a  seemingly  magical 


306  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

effect.     Habit  reasserted  itself.     She  started,  and  rose  al 
most  briskly. 

"No  you  won't/'  she  said,  "I'll  get  it.  I'd  ought  to 
have  thought  of  it  before.  You  must  be  tired  and  hungry." 

Her  voice  was  odd  and  thin.  Janet  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  ceded. 

"Well,  I'll  set  the  dishes  on  the  table,  anyway." 

Janet  had  sought  refuge,  wistfully,  in  the  commonplace. 
And  when  the  meal  was  ready  she  strove  to  eat,  though  food 
had  become  repulsive. 

"You  must  take  something,  mother,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  I  ever  wanted  to  eat  anything  again," 
she  replied. 

"I  know,"  said  Janet,  "but  you've  got  to."  And  she 
put  some  of  the  cold  meat,  left  over  from  Sunday's  dinner, 
on  Hannah's  plate.  Hannah  took  up  a  fork,  and  laid  it 
down  again.  Suddenly  she  said  :  — 

"You  sawLise?" 

"Yes,"  said  Janet. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  a  house  —  in  Boston." 

"  One  of  —  those  houses  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  said  Janet.     "I  think  so." 

"You  went  there?" 

"Mr.  Tiernan  went  with  me." 

"She  wouldn't  come  home?" 

"  Not  —  not  just  now,  mother." 

"You  left  her  there,  in  that  place?  You  didn't  make 
her  come  home  ?  " 

The  sudden  vehemence  of  this  question,  the  shrill  note  of 
reproach  in  Hannah's  voice  that  revealed,  even  more  than 
the  terrible  inertia  from  which  she  had  emerged,  the  extent 
of  her  suffering,  for  the  instant  left  Janet  utterly  dismayed. 
" Oh  mother  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  tried  —  I  —  I  couldn't." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  M 


chair. 
"  FH  go  to  her,  IH  make  her  come.    She's  cfegnced  os, 

but  IH  make  her.    Where  is  she?    Where  is  the  boose?" 
Janet,  terriJ5ed,sei-rd  her  mother's  ann.    Then  she  said:— 
"U«  isn't  there  any  more  —  die's  gone  away." 
"Away !  and  yoo  let  her  go  away?    Yoo  let  yoor 

go  away  and  be  a  —  a  woman  of  die  town?    Yoo 

loved  her  —  you  never  bad  any  pity  for  her." 
Tears  sprang  into  Inlet's  eyes — tears  of  pity 

with  anger.    The  situation  had  grown  intolerable!     Yet 

bow  cook!  she  tell  Hannah  where  Use  was! 

"You  haven't  any  right  to  say  that,  mother!"  sk 

"I  did  my  best.    9ie  wouldn't  come,     I  — I  can't  t 

to  write,  to  send 


"Lee!"     Hannah's  cry  seemed  like  the 

whimper  of  a  stricken  child,  and  then  2 
made  itself  felt,  a  cadence  revealing  to 
quence  never  before  achieved  the 
and  by  some  magic  of  tone  was  evoketi  anew 
—  •:•:'  Life  ^  M-  HM.?*   ^  fcc    H-ir.r-.i~..     N": 
no  degradation  or  disgrace  could  efface  it.    The 
whom  Hannah  had  c.   -  -         -  - 

sister,  whom  Janet  had  seen  that  day  were  one  —  immu 
tably  one.  This,  then,  was  what  it  meant  to  be 
a  mother!  AH  the  yeaas  of  deadening  hope  had  not 
availed  to  kill  the  crarmg— even  m  this  withered  body  it 
was  still  alive  and  quick.  The  a^ 
scarcely  to  be  borne.  And  it  Jtuoud  that  Use, 
place  where  she  was,  most  have  beard  that  cry 
iL  And  yet— die  revelation  of  Lise's 


A     :        JM 


308  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

now  the  conviction  remained,  fierce,  exultant,  final.  But 
if  Janet  had  spoken  now  Hannah  would  not  have  heard 
her.  Under  the  storm  she  had  begun  to  rock,  weeping  con 
vulsively.  .  .  .  But  gradually  her  weeping  ceased.  And 
to  Janet,  helplessly  watching,  this  process  of  congealment 
was  more  terrible  even  than  the  release  that  only  an  un 
mitigated  violence  of  grief  had  been  able  to  produce.  In 
silence  Hannah  resumed  her  shrunken  duties,  and  when 
these  were  finished  sat  awhile,  before  going  to  bed,  her 
hands  lying  listless  in  her  lap.  She  seemed  to  have  lived  for 
centuries,  to  have  exhausted  the  gamut  of  suffering  which, 
save  for  that  one  wild  outburst,  had  been  the  fruit  of  com 
monplace,  passive,  sordid  tragedy  that  knows  no  touch  of 
fire.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  Janet  was  awakened  by  the  siren. 
Never,  even  in  the  days  when  life  had  been  routine  and 
commonplace,  had  that  sound  failed  to  arouse  in  her  a 
certain  tremor  of  fear;  with  its  first  penetrating  shriek, 
terror  invaded  her  :  then,  by  degrees,  overcoming  her  numb 
ness,  came  an  agonizing  realization  of  tragedy  to  be  faced. 
The  siren  blew  and  blew  insistently,  as  though' it  never  meant 
to  stop ;  and  now  for  the  first  time  she  seemed  to  detect  in 
it  a  note  of  futility.  There  were  those  who  would  dare  to 
defy  it.  She,  for  one,  would  defy  it.  In  that  reflection  she 
found  a  certain  fierce  joy.  And  she  might  lie  in  bed  if  she 
wished  —  how  often  had  she  longed  to  !  But  she  could  not. 
The  room  was  cold,  appallingly  empty  and  silent  as  she 
hurried  into  her  clothes.  The  dining-room  lamp  was 
lighted,  the  table  set,  her  mother  was  bending  over  the 
stove  when  she  reached  the  kitchen.  After  the  pretence  of 
breakfast  was  gone  through  Janet  sought  relief  in  housework, 
making  her  bed,  tidying  her  room.  It  was  odd,  this  morning, 
how  her  notice  of  little,  familiar  things  had  the  power  to  add 
to  her  pain,  brought  to  mind  memories  become  excruciating : 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  309 

as  she  filled  the  water  pitcher  from  the  kitchen  tap  she  found 
herself  staring  at  the  nick  broken  out  of  it  when  Lise  had 
upset  it.  She  recalled  Lise's  characteristically  flippant  re 
mark.  And  there  was  the  streak  in  the  wall-paper  caused 
one  night  by  the  rain  leaking  through  the  roof.  After  the 
bed  was  made  and  the  room  swept  she  stood  a  moment, 
motionless,  and  then,  opening  the  drawer  in  the  wrardrobe 
took  from  it  the  rose  which  she  had  wrapped  in  tissue  paper 
and  hidden  there,  and  with  a  perverse  desire  as  it  w^ere  to 
increase  the  bitterness  consuming  her,  to  steep  herself  in 
pain,  she  undid  the  parcel  and  held  the  withered  flower  to 
her  face.  Even  now  a  fragrance,  faint  yet  poignant,  clung 
to  it.  ...  She  wrapped  it  up  again,  walked  to  the  window, 
hesitated,  and  then  with  a  sudden  determination  to  destroy 
this  sole  relic  of  her  happiness  went  to  the  kitchen  and 
flung  it  into  the  stove.  Hannah,  lingering  over  her  morning 
task  of  cleaning,  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  act.  Janet 
turned  to  her. 

"I  think  I'll  go  out  for  a  while,  mother,"  she  said. 

"You'd  ought  to,"  Hannah  replied.  "There's  no  use 
settin'  around  here." 

The  silence  of  the  flat  was  no  longer  to  be  endured.  And 
Janet,  putting  on  her  coat  and  hat,  descended  the  stairs. 
Not  once  that  morning  had  her  mother  mentioned  Lise; 
nor  had  she  asked  about  her  own  plans  —  about  Ditmar. 
This  at  least  was  a  relief ;  it  was  the  question  she  had  feared 
most.  In  the  street  she  met  the  postman. 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Miss  Janet,"  he  said.     And  on 
the  pink  envelope  he  handed  her,  in  purple  ink,  she  recog 
nized  the  unformed,  childish  handwriting  of  Lise.     "There's 
great  doings  down  at  the  City  Hall,"  the  postman  added : 
"the  foreigners  are  holding  mass  meetings  there." 

Janet  scarcely  heard  him  as  she  tore  open  the  envelope. 
"Dear  Janet,"  the  letter  ran.  "The  doctor  told  me  I  had 


310  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

a  false  alarm,  there  was  nothing  to  it.  Wouldn't  that  jar 
you  ?  Boston's  a  slow  burg,  and  there's  no  use  of  my  stay 
ing  here  now.  I'm  going  to  New  York,  and  maybe  I'll 
come  back  when  I've  had  a  look  at  the  great  white  way. 
I've  got  the  coin,  and  I  gave  him  the  mit  to-night.  If  you 
haven't  anything  better  to  do,  drop  in  at  the  Bagatelle  and 
give  Walters  my  love,  and  tell  them  not  to  worry  at  home. 
There's  no  use  trying  to  trail  me.  Your  affectionate  sister 
Lise." 

Janet  thrust  the  letter  in  her  pocket.  Then  she  walked 
rapidly  westward  until  she  came  to  the  liver-coloured  fa£ade 
of  the  City  Hall,  opposite  the  Common.  Pushing  through 
the  crowd  of  operatives  lingering  on  the  pavement  in  front 
of  it,  she  entered  the  building.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XV 


OCCASIONALLY  the  art  of  narrative  may  be  improved  by 
borrowing  the  method  of  the  movies.  Another  night  has 
passed,  and  we  are  called  upon  to  imagine  the  watery  sun 
light  of  a  mild  winter  afternoon  filtering  through  bare  trees 
on  the  heads  of  a  multitude.  A  large  portion  of  Hampton 
Common  is  black  with  the  people  of  sixteen  nationalities 
who  have  gathered  there,  trampling  down  the  snow,  to  listen 
wistfully  and  eagerly  to  a  new  doctrine  of  salvation.  In 
the  centre  of  this  throng  on  the  bandstand  —  reminiscent 
of  concerts  on  sultry,  summer  nights  —  are  the  itinerant 
apostles  of  the  cult  called  Syndicalism,  exhorting  by  turns 
in  divers  tongues.  Antonelli  had  spoken,  and  many  others, 
when  Janet,  impelled  by  a  craving  not  to  be  denied,  had 
managed  to  push  her  way  little  by  little  from  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  until  now  she  stood  almost  beneath  the  orator 
who  poured  forth  passionate  words  in  a  language  she  recog 
nized  as  Italian.  Her  curiosity  was  aroused,  she  was  unable 
to  classify  this  tall  man  whose  long  and  narrow  face  was 
accentuated  by  a  pointed  brown  beard,  whose  lips  gleamed 
red  as  he  spoke,  whose  slim  hands  were  eloquent.  The 
artist  as  propagandist  —  the  unsuccessful  artist  with  more 
facility  than  will.  The  nose  was  classic,  and  wanted  strength ; 
the  restless  eyes  that  at  times  seemed  fixed  on  her  were 
smouldering  windows  of  a  burning  house :  the  fire  that  stirred 
her  was  also  consuming  him.  Though  he  could  have  been 
little  more  than  five  and  thirty,  his  hair  was  thinned  and 

311 


312  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

greying  at  the  temples.  And  somehow  emblematic  of  this 
physiognomy  and  physique,  summing  it  up  and  expressing 
it  in  terms  of  apparel,  were  the  soft  collar  and  black  scarf 
tied  in  a  flowing  bow.  Janet  longed  to  know  what  he  was 
saying.  His  phrases,  like  music,  played  on  her  emotions, 
and  at  last,  when  his  voice  rose  in  crescendo  at  the  climax 
of  his  speech,  she  felt  like  weeping. 

"Un  poeta  !"  a  woman  beside  her  exclaimed. 

"Who  is  he?"  Janet  asked. 

"Rolfe,"  said  the  woman. 

"But  he's  an  Italian?" 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  It  is  his  name  — 
that  is  all  I  know."  He  had  begun  to  speak  again,  and  now 
in  English,  with  an  enunciation,  a  distinctive  manner  of 
turning  his  phrases  new  to  such  gatherings  in  America,  where 
labour  intellectuals  are  little  known;  surprising  to  Janet, 
diverting  her  attention,  at  first,  from  the  meaning  of  his 
words.  "Labour,"  she  heard^f^labour  is  the  creator  of  all 
wealth,  and  wealth  belongs  to  the  creator.  The  wage  sys 
tem  must  be  abolished.  You,  the  creators,  must  do  battle 
against  these  self-imposed  masters  until  you  shall  come  into 
your  own.  You  who  toil  miserably  for  nine  hours  and 
produce,  let  us  say,  nine  dollars  of  wealth  —  do  you  receive 
it  ?  No,  what  is  given  you  is  barely  enough  to  keep  the  slave 
and  the  slave's  family  alive!  The  master,  the  capitalist, 
seizes  the  rightful  reward  of  your  labour  and  spends  it  on 
luxuries,  on  automobiles  and  fine  houses  and  women,  on  food 
he  can't  eat,  while  you  are  hungry.  Yes,  you  are  slaves," 
he  cried,  "because  you  submit  like  slaves." 

He  waited,  motionless  and  scornful,  for  the  noise  to  die 
down.  "Since  I  have  come  here  to  Hampton,  I  have  heard 
some  speak  of  the  state,  others  of  the  unions.  Yet  the  state 
is  your  enemy,  it  will  not  help  you  to  gain  your  freedom. 
The  legislature  has  shortened  your  hours,  —  but  why  ? 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  313 

Because  the  politicians  are  afraid  of  you,  and  because  they 
think  you  will  be  content  with  a  little.  And  now  that  the 
masters  have  cut  your  wages,  the  state  sends  its  soldiers  to 
crush  you.  Only  fifty  cents,  they  say  —  only  fifty  cents  most 
of  you  miss  from  your  envelopes.  What  is  fifty  cents  to 
them  ?  But  I  who  speak  to  you  have  been  hungry,  I  know 
that  fifty  cents  will  buy  ten  loaves  of  bread,  or  three  pounds 
of  the  neck  of  pork,  or  six  quarts  of  milk  for  the  babies. 
Fifty  cents  will  help  pay  the  rent  of  the  rat-holes  where  you 
live."!  Once  more  he  was  interrupted  by  angry  shouts  of 
val.  "And  the  labour  unions,  have  they  aided  you? 


Why  not  ?  I  will  tell  you  why  —  because  they  are  the  ser 
vile  instruments  of  the  masters.  The  unions  say  that  capital 
has  rights,  bargain  with  it,  but  for  us  there  can  be  only  one 
bargain,  complete  surrender  of  the  tools  to  the  workers.  For 
the  capitalists  are  parasites  who  suck  your  blood  and  your 
children's  blood.  From  now  on  there  can  be  no  compromise, 
no  truce,  no  peace  until  they  are  exterminated.  It  is  war." 
War  !  In  Janet's  soul  the  word  resounded  like  a  tocsin. 
And  again,  as  when  swept  along  East  Street  with  the  mob, 
that  sense  of  identity  with  these  people  and  their  wrongs,  of 
submergence  with  them  in  their  cause  possessed  her.  De 
spite  her  ancestry,  her  lot  was  cast  with  them.  She,  too, 
had  been  precariously  close  to  poverty,  had  known  the  sor- 
didness  of  life;  she,  too,  and  Lise  and  Hannah  had  been 
duped  and  cheated  of  the  fairer  things.  Eagerly  she  had 
drunk  in  the  vocabulary  of  that  new  and  terrible  philosophy. 
The  master  class  must  be  exterminated  !  W7as  it  not  true, 
if  she  had  been  of  that  class,  that  Ditmar  would  not  have 
dared  to  use  and  deceive  her  ?  Why  had  she  never  thought 
of  these  things  before?  .  .  .  The  light  was  beginning  to 
fade,  the  great  meeting  was  breaking  up,  and  yet  she  lin 
gered.  At  the  foot  of  the  bandstand  steps,  conversing  with 
a  small  group  of  operatives  that  surrounded  him,  she  per- 


314  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

ceived  the  man  who  had  just  spoken.  And  as  she  stood 
hesitating,  gazing  at  him,  a  desire  to  hear  more,  to  hear  all 
of  this  creed  he  preached,  that  fed  the  fires  in  her  soul,  urged 
her  forward.  Her  need,  had  she  known  it,  was  even  greater 
than  that  of  these  toilers  whom  she  now  called  comrades. 
Despite  some  qualifying  reserve  she  felt,  and  which  had  had 
to  do  with  the  redness  of  his  lips,  he  attracted  her.  He  had 
a  mind,  an  intellect,  he  must  possess  stores  of  the  knowledge 
for  which  she  thirsted ;  he  appeared  to  her  as  one  who  had 
studied  and  travelled,  who  had  ascended  heights  and  gained 
the  wider  view  denied  her.  A  cynical  cosmopolitanism  would 
have  left  her  cold,  but  here,  apparently,  was  a  cultivated 
man  burning  with  a  sense  of  the  world's  wrongs.  Ditmar, 
who  was  to  have  led  her  out  of  captivity,  had  only  thrust 
her  the  deeper  into  bondage.  .  .  .  She  joined  the  group, 
halting  on  the  edge  of  it,  listening.  Rolfe  was  arguing  with 
a  man  about  the  labour  unions,  but  almost  at  once  she  knew 
she  had  fixed  his  attention.  From  time  to  time,  as  he  talked, 
his  eyes  sought  hers  boldly,  and  in  their  dark  pupils  were 
tiny  points  of  light  that  stirred  and  confused  her,  made  her 
wonder  what  was  behind  them,  in  his  soul.  When  he  had 
finished  his  argument,  he  singled  her  out. 

"You  do  not  work  in  the  mills?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  I'm  a  stenographer  —  or  I  was  one." 

"And  now?" 

"I've  given  up  my  place." 

"You  want  to  join  us?" 

"I  was  interested  in  what  you  said.  I  never  heard  any 
thing  like  it  before." 

He  looked  at  her  intently. 

"Come,  let  us  walk  a  little  way,"  he  said.  And  she 
went  along  by  his  side,  through  the  Common,  feeling  a 
neophyte's  excitement  in  the  freemasonry,  the  contempt 
for  petty  conventions  of  this  newly  achieved  doctrine  of 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  315 

brotherhood.  "I  will  give  you  things  to  read,  you  shall  be 
one  of  us." 

"Fm  afraid  I  shouldn't  understand  them,"  Janet  replied. 
"I've  read  so  little." 

"  Oh,  you  will  understand,"  he  assured  her,  easily.  "  There 
is  too  much  learning,  too  much  reason  and  intelligence  in 
the  world,  too  little  impulse  and  feeling,  intuition.  Where 
do  reason  and  intelligence  lead  us  ?  To  selfishness,  to  thirst 
for  power  —  straight  into  the  master  class.  They  separate 
us  from  the  mass  of  humanity.  No,  our  fight  is  against 
those  who  claim  more  enlightenment  than  their  fellow-men, 
who  control  the  public  schools  and  impose  reason  on  our 
children,  because  reason  leads  to  submission,  makes  us  con 
tent  with  our  station  in  life.  The  true  syndicalist  is  an 
artist,  a  revolutionist!"  he  cried. 

Janet  found  this  bewildering  and  yet  through  it  seemed 
to  shine  for  her  a  gleam  of  light.  Her  excitement  grew. 
Never  before  had  she  been  in  the  presence  of  one  who  talked 
like  this,  with  such  assurance  and  ease.  And  the  fact  that 
he  despised  knowledge,  yet  possessed  it,  lent  him  glamour. 

"But  you  have  studied !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh  yes,  I  have  studied,"  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of 
weariness,  "only  to  learn  that  life  is  simple,  after  all,  and 
that  what  is  needed  for  the  social  order  is  simple.  We 
have  only  to  take  what  belongs  to  us,  we  who  work,  to  fol 
low  our  feelings,  our  inclinations." 

"You  would  take  possession  of  the  mills?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quickly,  "of  all  wealth,  and  of  the  govern 
ment.  There  would  be  no  government  —  we  should  not  need 
it.  A  little  courage  is  all  that  is  necessary,  and  we  come 
into  our  own.  You  are  a  stenographer,  you  say.  But  you 
—  you  are  net  content,  I  can  see  it  in  your  face,  in  your  eyes. 
You  have  cause  to  hate  them,  too,  these  masters,  or  you 
would  not  have  been  here  in  this  place,  to-day.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 


316  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

She  shivered,  but  was  silent. 

"Is  it  not  so?"  he  repeated.  "They  have  wronged  you, 
too,  perhaps,  —  they  have  wronged  us  all,  but  some  are  too 
stupid,  too  cowardly  to  fight  and  crush  them.  Christians 
and  slaves  submit.  The  old  religion  teaches  that  the  world 
is  cruel  for  most  of  us,  but  if  we  are  obedient  and  humble 
we  shall  be  rewarded  in  heaven."  Rolfe  laughed.  "The 
masters  approve  of  that  teaching.  They  would  not  have  it 
changed.  But  for  us  it  is  war.  We'll  strike  and  keep  on 
striking,  we'll  break  their  machinery,  spoil  their  mills  and 
factories,  and  drive  them  out.  And  even  if  we  do  not  win 
at  once,  it  is  better  to  suffer  and  die  fighting  than  to  have 
the  life  ground  out  of  us  —  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,  it  is  better !"  she  agreed.  The  passion  in  her  voice 
did  not  escape  him. 

"Some  day,  perhaps  sooner  than  we  think,  we  shall  have 
the  true  Armageddon,  the  general  strike,  when  the  last 
sleeping  toiler  shall  have  aroused  himself  from  his  lethargy 
to  rise  up  and  come  into  his  inheritance."  He  seemed  to 
detach  himself  from  her,  his  eyes  became  more  luminous. 

"'Like  unseen  music  in  the  night,'  —  so  Sorel  writes  about 
it.  They  may  scoff  at  it,  the  wise  ones,  but  it  will  come. 
'Like  music  in  the  night  P  You  respond  to  that !" 

Again  she  was  silent.  They  had  walked  on,  through 
familiar  streets  that  now  seemed  strange. 

"You  respond  —  I  can  tell,"  he  said.  "And  yet,  you  are 
not  like  these  others,  like  me,  even.  You  are  an  American. 
And  yet  you  are  not  like  most  of  your  countrywomen." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"I  will  tell  you.  Because  they  are  cold,  most  of  them, 
and  trivial,  they  do  not  feel.  But  you  —  you  can  feel,  you 
can  love  and  hate.  You  look  calm  and  cold,  but  you  are 
not  —  I  knew  it  when  I  looked  at  you,  when  you  came 
up  to  me." 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  317 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  resent  or  welcome  his  clair 
voyance,  his  assumption  of  intimacy,  his  air  of  appropria 
tion.  But  her  curiosity  was  tingling. 

"And  you?"  she  asked.     "Your  name  is  Rolfe,  isn't  it?" 

He  assented.     "  And  yours  ?  " 

She  told  him. 

"You  have  been  in  America  long  —  your  family?" 

"Very  long,"  she  said.  "But  you  speak  Italian,  and 
Rolfe  isn't  an  Italian  name." 

"My  father  was  an  Englishman,  an  artist,  who  lived  in 
Italy  —  my  mother  a  peasant  woman  from  Lombardy,  such 
as  these  who  come  to  work  in  the  mills.  When  she  was 
young  she  was  beautiful  —  like  a  Madonna  by  an  old  master." 

"An  old  master?" 

"The  old  masters  are  the  great  painters  who  lived  in 
Italy  four  hundred  years  ago.  I  was  named  after  one  of 
them  —  the  greatest.  I  am  called  Leonard.  He  was 
Leonardo  da  Vinci." 

The  name,  as  Rolfe  pronounced  it,  stirred  her.  And  art, 
painting  !  It  was  a  realm  unknown  to  her,  and  yet  the  very 
suggestion  of  it  evoked  yearnings.  And  she  recalled  a  pic 
ture  in  the  window  of  Hartmann's  book-store,  a  coloured 
print  before  which  she  used  to  stop  on  her  way  to  and  from 
the  office,  the  copy  of  a  landscape  by  a  California  artist. 
The  steep  hillside  in  the  foreground  was  spread  with  the 
misty  green  of  olive  trees,  and  beyond  —  far  beyond  —  a 
snow-covered  peak,  like  some  high  altar,  flamed  red  in  the 
sunset.  She  had  not  been  able  to  express  her  feeling  for  this 
picture,  it  had  filled  her  with  joy  and  sadness.  Once  she  had 
ventured  to  enter  and  ask  its  price  —  ten  dollars.  And  then 
came  a  morning  when  she  had  looked  for  it,  and  it  was  gone. 

"And  your  father  —  did  he  paint  beautiful  pictures,  too ? " 

"Ah,  he  was  too  much  of  a  socialist.  He  was  always 
away  when  I  was  a  child,  and  after  my  mother's  death  he 


318  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

used  to  take  me  with  him.  When  I  was  seventeen  we  went 
to  Milan  to  take  part  in  the  great  strike,  and  there  I  saw  the 
soldiers  shooting  down  the  workers  by  the  hundreds,  putting 
them  in  prison  by  the  thousands.  Then  I  went  to  live  in 
England,  among  the  socialists  there,  and  I  learned  the  printer's 
trade.  When  I  first  came  to  this  country  I  was  on  a  labour 
paper  in  New  York,  I  set  up  type,  I  wrote  articles,  and  once 
in  a  while  I  addressed  meetings  on  the  East  Side.  But  even 
before  I  left  London  I  had  read  a  book  on  Syndicalism  by  one 
of  the  great  Frenchmen,  and  after  a  while  I  began  to  realize 
that  the  proletariat  would  never  get  anywhere  through 
socialism." 

"The  proletariat?"     The  word  was  new  to  Janet's  ear. 

"The  great  mass  of  the  workers,  the  oppressed,  the  people 
you  saw  here  to-day.  Socialism  is  not  for  them.  Socialism 
—  political  socialism  —  betrays  them  into  the  hands  of  the 
master  class.  Direct  action  is  the  thing,  the  general  strike, 
war,  —  the  new  creed,  the  new  religion  that  will  bring  sal 
vation.  I  joined  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World  — 
that  is  the  American  organization  of  Syndicalism.  I  went 
west,  to  Colorado  and  California  and  Oregon,  I  preached  to 
the  workers  wherever  there  was  an  uprising,  I  met  the  leaders, 
Ritter  and  Borkum  and  Antonelli  and  Jastro  and  Nellie 
Bond,  I  was  useful  to  them,  I  understand  Syndicalism  as 
they  do  not.  And  now  we  are  here,  to  sow  the  seed  in  the 
East.  Come/'  he  said,  slipping  his  arm  through  hers,  "I 
will  take  you  to  Headquarters,  I  will  enlist  you,  you  shall 
be  my  recruit.  I  will  give  you  the  cause,  the  religion  you 
need." 

She  longed  to  go,  and  yet  she  drew  back,  puzzled.  The 
man  fired  and  fascinated  her,  but  there  were  reservations, 
apprehensions  concerning  him,  felt  rather  than  reasoned.  Be 
cause  of  her  state  of  rebellion,  of  her  intense  desire  to  satisfy 
in  action  the  emotion  aroused  by  a  sense  of  wrong,  his  creed 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  319 

had  made  a  violent  appeal,  but  in  his  voice,  in  his  eyes,  in 
his  manner  she  had  been  quick  to  detect  a  personal,  sexual 
note  that  disturbed  and  alarmed  her,  that  implied  in  him  a 
lack  of  unity. 

"I  can't,  to-night,"  she  said.  "I  must  go  home — my 
mother  is  all  alone.  But  I  want  to  help,  I  want  to  do  some 
thing." 

They  were  standing  on  a  corner,  under  a  street  lamp. 
And  she  averted  her  eyes  from  his  glance. 

"Then  come  to-morrow,"  he  said  eagerly.  "You  know 
where  Headquarters  is,  in  the  Franco-Belgian  Hall?" 

"What  could  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"You?  You  could  help  in  many  ways  —  among  the 
women.  Do  you  know  what  picketing  is?" 

"You  mean  keeping  the  operatives  out  of  the  mills?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  morning,  when  they  go  to  work.  And  out  of 
the  Chippering  Mill,  especially.  Ditmar,  the  agent  of  that 
mill,  is  the  ablest  of  the  lot,  I'm  told.  He's  the  man  we 
want  to  cripple." 

"  Cripple  1 "  exclaimed  Janet. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  harm  him  personally."  Rolfe 
did  not  seem  to  notice  her  tone.  "But  he  intends  to  crush 
the  strike,  and  I  understand  he's  importing  scabs  here  to 
finish  out  an  order  —  a  big  order.  If  it  weren't  for  him, 
we'd  have  an  easier  fight ;  he  stiffens  up  the  others.  There's 
always  one  man  like  that,  in  every  place.  And  what  we 
want  to  do  is  to  make  him  shut  down,  especially." 

"I  see,"  said  Janet. 

"You'll  come  to  Headquarters?"  Rolfe  repeated. 

"Yes,  I'll  come,  to-morrow,"  she  promised. 

After  she  had  left  him  she  walked  rapidly  through  several 
streets,  not  heeding  her  direction  —  such  was  the  driving 
power  of  the  new  ideas  he  had  given  her.  Certain  wT>rds 
and  phrases  he  had  spoken  rang  in  her  head,  and  like  martial 


320  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

music  kept  pace  with  her  steps.  She  strove  to  remember 
all  that  he  had  said,  to  grasp  its  purport;  and  because  it 
seemed  recondite,  cosmic,  it  appealed  to  her  and  excited  her 
the  more.  And  he,  the  man  himself,  had  exerted  a  kind  of 
hypnotic  force  that  partially  had  paralyzed  her  faculties 
and  aroused  her  fears  while  still  in  his  presence :  her  first 
feeling  in  escaping  had  been  one  of  relief  —  and  then  she 
began  to  regret  not  having  gone  to  Headquarters.  Hadn't 
she  been  foolish?  In  the  retrospect,  the  elements  in  him 
that  had  disturbed  her  were  less  disquieting,  his  intellectual 
fascination  was  enhanced :  and  in  that  very  emancipation 
from  cant  and  convention,  characteristic  of  the  Order  to 
which  he  belonged,  had  lain  much  of  his  charm.  She  had 
attracted  him  as  a  woman,  there  was  no  denying  that.  He, 
who  had  studied  and  travelled  and  known  life  in  many  lands, 
had  discerned  in  her,  Janet  Bumpus,  some  quality  to  make 
him  desire  her,  acknowledge  her  as  a  comrade  !  Tremblingly 
she  exulted  in  the  possession  of  that  quality  —  whatever  it 
might  be.  Ditmar,  too,  had  perceived  it !  He  had  not 
known  how  to  value  it.  With  this  thought  came  a  flaming 
suggestion  —  Ditmar  should  see  her  with  this  man  Rolfe, 
she  would  make  him  scorch  with  the  fires  of  jealousy.  Dit 
mar  should  know  that  she  had  joined  his  enemies,  the  In 
dustrial  Workers  of  the  World.  Of  the  world  !  Her  shackles 
had  been  cast  off  at  last !  .  .  .  And  then,  suddenly,  she  felt 
tired.  The  prospect  of  returning  to  Fillmore  Street,  to  the 
silent  flat  —  made  the  more  silent  by  her  mother's  tragic 
presence  —  overwhelmed  her.  The  ache  in  her  heart  began 
to  throb  again.  How  could  she  wait  until  the  dawn  of  an 
other  day  ?  .  .  . 


In  the  black  hours  of  the  morning,  with  the  siren  dinning 
in  her  ears  a  hoarse  call  to  war,  Janet  leaped  from  her  bed 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  321 

and  began  to  dress.  There  is  a  degree  of  cold  so  sharp  that 
it  seems  actually  to  smell,  and  as  she  stole  down  the  stairs 
and  out  of  the  door  she  shivered,  assailed  by  a  sense  of  lone 
liness  and  fear.  Yet  an  insistent  voice  urged  her  on,  whis 
pering  that  to  remain  at  home,  inactive,  was  to  go  mad ; 
salvation  and  relief  lay  in  plunging  into  the  struggle,  in 
contributing  her  share  toward  retribution  and  victory. 
Victory !  In  Faber  Street  the  light  of  the  electric  arcs 
tinged  the  snow  with  blue,  and  the  flamboyant  advertise 
ments  of  breakfast  foods,  cigarettes  and  ales  seemed  but 
the  mockery  of  an  activity  now  unrealizable.  The  groups 
and  figures  scattered  here  and  there  farther  down  the  street 
served  only  to  exaggerate  its  wide  emptiness.  What  could 
these  do,  what  could  she  accomplish  against  the  mighty 
power  of  the  mills?  Gradually,  as  she  stood  gazing,  she 
became  aware  of  a  beating  of  feet  upon  the  snow ;  over  her 
shoulder  she  caught  the  gleam  of  steel.  A  squad  of  soldiers 
muffled  in  heavy  capes  and  woolen  caps  was  marching  along 
the  car-tracks.  She  followed  them.  At  the  corner  of 
West  Street,  in  obedience  to  a  sharp  command  she  saw  them 
halt,  turn,  and  advance  toward  a  small  crowd  gathered 
there.  It  scattered,  only  to  collect  again  when  the  soldiers 
had  passed  on.  Janet  joined  them.  She  heard  men  cursing 
the  soldiers.  The  women  stood  a  little  aside;  some  were 
stamping  to  keep  warm,  and  one,  with  a  bundle  in  her 
arms  which  Janet  presently  perceived  to  be  a  child,  sank 
down  on  a  stone  step  and  remained  there,  crouching,  re 
signed. 

"We  gotta  right  to  stay  here,  in  the  street.  We  gotta 
right  to  live,  I  guess/'  The  girl's  teeth  were  chattering,  but 
she  spoke  with  such  vehemence  and  spirit  as  to  attract 
Janet's  attention.  "You  worked  in  the  Chippering,  like 
me  —  yes?"  she  asked. 

Janet  nodded.     The  faded,  lemon-coloured  shawl  the  girl 


322  THE   DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT 

had  wrapped  about  her  head  emphasized  the  dark  beauty  of 
her  oval  face.  She  smiled,  and  her  white  teeth  were  fairly 
dazzling.  Impulsively  she  thrust  her  arm  through  Janet's. 

"You  American  —  you  comrade,  you  come  to  help?" 
she  asked. 

"I've  never  done  any  picketing." 

"I  showa  you." 

The  dawn  had  begun  to  break,  revealing  little  by  little 
the  outlines  of  cruel,  ugly  buildings,  the  great  mill  looming 
darkly  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  Janet  found  it  scarcely 
believable  that  only  a  little  while  ago  she  had  hurried  thither 
in  the  mornings  with  anticipation  and  joy  in  her  heart, 
eager  to  see  Ditmar,  to  be  near  him !  The  sight  of  two 
policemen  hurrying  toward  them  from  the  direction  of  the 
canal  aroused  her.  With  sullen  murmurs  the  group  started 
to  disperse,  but  the  woman  with  the  baby,  numb  with  cold, 
was  slow  in  rising,  and  one  of  the  policemen  thrust  out  his 
club  threateningly. 

"Move  on,  you  can't  sit  here,"  he  said. 

With  a  lithe  movement  like  the  spring  of  a  cat  the  Italian 
girl  flung  herself  between  them  —  a  remarkable  exhibition 
of  spontaneous  inflammability;  her  eyes  glittered  like  the 
points  of  daggers,  and,  as  though  they  had  been  dagger  points, 
the  policeman  recoiled  a  little.  The  act,  which  was  ab 
solutely  natural,  superb,  electrified  Janet,  restored  in  an  in 
stant  her  own  fierceness  of  spirit.  The  girl  said  something 
swiftly,  in  Italian,  and  helped  the  woman  to  rise,  paying 
no  more  attention  to  the  policeman.  Janet  walked  on,  but 
she  had  not  covered  half  the  block  before  she  was  overtaken 
by  the  girl;  her  anger  had  come  and  gone  in  a  flash,  her 
vivacity  had  returned,  her  vitality  again  found  expression 
in  an  abundant  good  nature  and  good  will.  She  asked 
Janet's  name,  volunteering  the  information  that  her  own 
was  Gemma,  that  she  was  a  "fine  speeder"  in  the  Chipper- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  323 

ing  Mill,  where  she  had  received  nearly  seven  dollars  a  week. 
She  had  been  among  the  first  to  walk  out. 

"Why  did  you  walk  out?"  asked  Janet  curiously. 

"Why?  I  get  mad  when  I  know  that  my  wages  is  cut. 
I  want  the  money  —  I  get  married." 

"Is  that  why  you  are  striking?"  asked  Janet  curiously. 

"That  is  why  — of  course." 

"Then  you  haven't  heard  any  of  the  speakers?  They 
say  it  is  for  a  cause  —  the  workers  are  striking  for  freedom, 
some  day  they  will  own  the  mills.  I  heard  a  man  named 
Rolfe  yesterday  - 

The  girl  gave  her  a  radiant  smile. 

"Rolfe  !  It  is  beautiful,  what  Rolfe  said.  You  think  so? 
I  think  so.  I  am  for  the  cause,  I  hate  the  capitalist.  We 
will  win,  and  get  more  money,  until  we  have  all  the  money. 
We  will  be  rich.  And  you,  why  do  you  strike?" 

"I  was  mad,  too,"  Janet  replied  simply. 

"Revenge!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  glittering  again.  "I 
understan'.  Here  come  the  scabs !  Now  I  show  you." 

The  light  had  grown,  but  the  stores  were  still  closed  and 
barred.  Along  Faber  Street,  singly  or  in  little  groups,  anx 
iously  glancing  around  them,  behind  them,  came  the  workers 
who  still  clung  desperately  to  their  jobs.  Gemma  fairly 
darted  at  two  girls  who  sought  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 
seizing  them  by  the  sleeves,  and  with  piteous  expressions 
they  listened  while  she  poured  forth  on  them  a  stream  of 
Italian.  After  a  moment  one  tore  herself  away,  but  the 
other  remained  and  began  to  ask  questions.  Presently  she 
turned  and  walked  slowly  away  in  the  direction  from  which 
she  had  come. 

"I  get  her,"  exclaimed  Gemma,  triumphantly. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Janet. 

"  Listen  —  that  she  take  the  bread  from  our  mouths,  she 
is  traditore  —  scab.  \Ve  strike  for  them,  too,  is  it  not  so  ? 


324  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

It  is  no  use  for  them  to  work  for  wages  that  starve.  We 
win  the  strike,  we  get  good  wages  for  all.  Here  comes 
another  —  she  is  a  Jewess  —  you  try,  you  spik." 

Janet  failed  with  the  Jewess,  who  obstinately  refused  to 
listen  or  reply  as  the  two  walked  along  with  her,  one  on  either 
side.  Near  West  Street  they  spied  a  policeman,  and  de 
sisted.  Up  and  down  Faber  Street,  everywhere,  the  game 
went  on :  but  the  police  were  watchful,  and  once  a  detach 
ment  of  militia  passed .  The  picketing  had  to  be  done  quickly, 
in  the  few  minutes  that  were  to  elapse  before  the  gates  should 
close.  Janet's  blood  ran  faster,  she  grew  excited,  absorbed, 
bolder  as  she  perceived  the  apologetic  attitude  of  the  "  scabs" 
and  she  began  to  despise  them  with  Gemma's  heartiness; 
and  soon  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  surprise  at  finding  herself 
arguing,  pleading,  appealing  to  several  women  in  turn, 
fluently,  in  the  language  of  the  industrial  revolution.  Some 
—  because  she  was  an  American  —  examined  her  with  fur 
tive  curiosity;  others  pretended  not  to  understand,  acceler 
ating  their  pace.  She  gained  no  converts  that  morning,  but 
one  girl,  pale,  anemic  with  high  cheek  bones  —  evidently 
a  Slav  —  listened  to  her  intently. 

"I  gotta  rait  to  work,"  she  said. 

"Not  if  others  will  starve  because  you  work,"  objected 
Janet. 

"If  I  don't  work  I  starve,"  said  the  girl. 

"  No,  the  Committee  will  take  care  of  you  —  there  will 
be  food  for  all.  How  much  do  you  get  now?" 

"  Four  dollar  and  a  half." 

"You  starve  now,"  Janet  declared  contemptuously. 
"  The  quicker  you  join  us,  the  sooner  you'll  get  a  living  wage." 

The  girl  was  not  quite  convinced.  She  stood  for  a  while 
undecided,  and  then  ran  abruptly  off  in  the  direction  of 
West  Street.  Janet  sought  for  others,  but  they  had  ceased 
coming;  only  the  scattered,  prowling  picketers  remained. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  325 

Over  the  black  rim  of  the  Clarendon  Mill  to  the  eastward 
the  sky  had  caught  fire.  The  sun  had  risen,  the  bells  were 
ringing  riotously,  resonantly  in  the  clear,  cold  air.  Another 
working  day  had  begun. 


Janet,  benumbed  with  cold,  yet  agitated  and  trembling 
because  of  her  unwonted  experience  of  the  morning,  made 
her  way  back  to  Fillmore  Street.  She  was  prepared  to  answer 
any  questions  her  mother  might  ask ;  as  they  ate  their  dismal 
breakfast,  and  Hannah  asked  no  questions,  she  longed  to 
blurt  out  where  she  had  been,  to  announce  that  she  had 
cast  her  lot  with  the  strikers,  the  foreigners,  to  defend 
them  and  declare  that  these  were  not  to  blame  for  the  mis 
fortunes  of  the  family,  but  men  like  Ditmar  and  the  owners 
of  the  mills,  the  capitalists.  Her  mother,  she  reflected 
bitterly,  had  never  once  betrayed  any  concern  as  to  her 
shattered  happiness.  But  gradually,  as  from  time  to  time 
she  glanced  covertly  at  Hannah's  face,  her  resentment  gave 
way  to  apprehension.  Hannah  did  not  seem  now  even 
to  be  aware  of  her  presence;  this  persistent  apathy  filled 
her  with  a  dread  she  did  not  dare  to  acknowledge. 

"Mother  !"  she  cried  at  last. 

Hannah  started.     "Have  you  finished?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  You've  b'en  out  in  the  cold,  and  you  haven't  eaten  much." 

Janet  fought  back  her  tears.  "Oh  yes,  I  have,"  she  man 
aged  to  reply,  convinced  of  the  futility  of  speech,  of  all  at 
tempts  to  arouse  her  mother  to  a  realization  of  the  situation. 
Perhaps  —  though  her  heart  contracted  at  the  thought  — 
perhaps  it  was  a  merciful  thing !  But  to  live,  day  after 
day,  in  the  presence  of  that  comfortless  apathy !  .  .  .  Later 
in  the  morning  she  went  out,  to  walk  the  streets,  and  again 
in  the  afternoon ;  and  twice  she  turned  her  face  eastward, 


326  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

in  the  direction  of  the  Franco-Belgian  Hall.  Her  courage 
failed  her.  How  would  these  foreigners  and  the  strange 
leaders  who  had  come  to  organize  them  receive  her,  Dit- 
mar's  stenographer  ?  She  would  have  to  tell  them  she  was 
Ditmar's  stenographer;  they  would  find  it  out.  And  now 
she  was  filled  with  doubts  about  Rolfe.  Had  he  really 
thought  she  could  be  of  use  to  them  !  Around  the  Common, 
in  front  of  the  City  Hall  men  went  about  their  affairs  alertly, 
or  stopped  one  another  to  talk  about  the  strike.  In  Faber 
Street,  indeed,  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement  prevailed, 
newsboys  were  shouting  out  extras;  but  business  went  on 
as  though  nothing  had  happened  to  disturb  it.  There  was, 
however,  the  spectacle,  unusual  at  this  time  of  day,  of  oper 
atives  mingling  with  the  crowd,  while  policemen  stood  watch 
fully  at  the  corners;  a  company  of  soldiers  marched  by, 
drawing  the  people  in  silence  to  the  curb.  Janet  scanned  the 
faces  of  these  idle  operatives;  they  seemed  for  the  most 
part  either  calm  or  sullen,  wanting  the  fire  and  passion  of 
the  enthusiasts  who  had  come  out  to  picket  in  the  early  hours 
of  the  day ;  she  sought  vainly  for  the  Italian  girl  with  whom 
she  had  made  friends.  Despondency  grew  in  her,  a  sense  of 
isolation,  of  lacking  any  one,  now,  to  whom  she  might  turn, 
and  these  feelings  were  intensified  by  the  air  of  confidence 
prevailing  here.  The  strike  was  crushed,  injustice  and  wrong 
had  triumphed  —  would  always  triumph.  In  front  of  the 
Banner  office  she  heard  a  man  say  to  an  acquaintance  who 
had  evidently  just  arrived  in  town :  — 

"The  Chippering?  Sure,  that's  running.  By  to-morrow 
Ditmar'll  have  a  full  force  there.  Now  that  the  militia 
has  come,  I  guess  we've  got  this  thing  scotched.  .  .  ." 

Just  how  and  when  that  order  and  confidence  of  Faber 
Street  began  to  be  permeated  by  disquietude  and  alarm, 
Janet  could  not  have  said.  Something  was  happening, 
somewhere  —  or  about  to  happen.  An  obscure,  apparently 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  327 

telepathic  process  was  at  work.  People  began  to  hurry 
westward,  a  few  had  abandoned  the  sidewalk  and  were  run 
ning;  while  other  pedestrians,  more  timid,  were  equally 
concerned  to  turn  and  hasten  in  the  opposite  direction.  At 
the  corner  of  West  Street  was  gathering  a  crowd  that  each 
moment  grew  larger  and  larger,  despite  the  efforts  of  the 
police  to  disperse  it.  These  were  strikers,  angry  strikers. 
They  blocked  the  traffic,  halted  the  clanging  trolleys,  surged 
into  the  mouth  of  West  Street,  booing  and  cursing  at  the 
soldiers  whose  threatening  line  of  bayonets  stretched  across 
that  thoroughfare  half-way  down  toward  the  canal,  guarding 
the  detested  Chippering  Mill.  Bordering  West  Street,  be 
hind  the  company's  lodging-houses  on  the  canal,  were  certain 
low  buildings,  warehouses,  and  on  their  roofs  tense  figures 
could  be  seen  standing  out  against  the  sky.  The  vanguard 
of  the  mob,  thrust  on  by  increasing  pressure  from  behind, 
tumbled  backward  the  thin  cordon  of  police,  drew  nearer 
and  nearer  the  bayonets,  while  the  soldiers  grimly  held  their 
ground.  A  voice  was  heard  on  the  roof,  a  woman  in  the 
front  rank  of  the  mob  gave  a  warning  shriek,  and  two  swift 
streams  of  icy  water  burst  forth  from  the  warehouse  para 
pet,  tearing  the  snow  from  the  cobbles,  flying  in  heavy,  sting 
ing  spray  as  it  advanced  and  mowed  the  strikers  down  and 
drove  them  like  flies  toward  Faber  Street.  Screams  of  fright, 
curses  of  defiance  and  hate  mingled  with  the  hissing  of  the 
water  and  the  noise  of  its  impact  with  the  ground  —  like 
the  tearing  of  heavy  sail-cloth.  Then,  from  somewhere  near 
the  edge  of  the  mob,  came  a  single,  sharp  detonation,  quickly 
followed  by  another  —  below  the  watchmen  on  the  roof  a 
window  crashed.  The  nozzles  on  the  roof  were  raised,  their 
streams,  sweeping  around  in  a  great  semi-circle,  bowled 
down  the  rioters  below  the  tell-tale  wisps  of  smoke,  and 
no  sooner  had  the  avalanche  of  "vater  passed  than  the  police 
men  who,  forewarned,  had  sought  refuge  along  the  walls, 


328  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

rushed  forward  and  seized  a  man  who  lay  gasping  on  the 
snow.  Dazed,  half  drowned,  he  had  dropped  his  pistol. 
They  handcuffed  him  and  dragged  him  away  through  the 
ranks  of  the  soldiers,  which  opened  for  him  to  pass.  The 
mob,  including  those  who  had  been  flung  down,  bruised  and 
drenched,  and  who  had  painfully  got  to  their  feet  again, 
had  backed  beyond  the  reach  of  the  water,  and  for  a  while 
held  that  ground,  until  above  its  hoarse,  defiant  curses  was 
heard,  from  behind,  the  throbbing  of  drums. 

"  Cossacks !    More  Cossacks ! " 

The  cry  was  taken  up  by  Canadians,  Italians,  Belgians, 
Poles,  Slovaks,  Jews,  and  Syrians.  The  drums  grew  louder, 
the  pressure  from  the  rear  was  relaxed,  the  throng  in  "Faber 
Street  began  a  retreat  in  the  direction  of  the  power  plant. 
Down  that  street,  now  in  double  time,  came  three  companies 
of  Boston  militia,  newly  arrived  in  Hampton,  blue-caped, 
gaitered,  slouch-hatted.  From  columns  of  fours  they 
wheeled  into  line,  and  with  bayonets  at  charge  slowly  ad 
vanced.  Then  the  boldest  of  the  mob,  who  still  lingered, 
sullenly  gave  way,  West  Street  was  cleared,  and  on  the  \vider 
thoroughfare  the  long  line  of  traffic,  the  imprisoned  trolleys 
began  to  move  again.  .  .  . 

Janet  had  wedged  herself  into  the  press  far  enough  to 
gain  a  view  down  West  Street  of  the  warehouse  roofs,  to  see 
the  water  turned  on,  to  hear  the  screams  and  the  curses 
and  then  the  shots.  Once  more  she  caught  the  contagious 
rage  of  the  mob ;  the  spectacle  had  aroused  her  to  fury ;  it 
seemed  ignominious,  revolting  that  human  beings,  already 
sufficiently  miserable,  should  be  used  thus.  As  she  retreated 
reluctantly  across  the  car  tracks  her  attention  was  drawn  to 
a  man  at  her  side,  a  Slovak.  His  face  was  white  and  pinched, 
his  clothes  were  wet.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  turned  and 
shook  his  fist  at  the  line  of  soldiers. 

"The  Cossack,  the  politzman  belong  to  the  boss,  the 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  329 

capitalist !"  he  cried.  "We  ain't  got  no  rait  to  live.  I  say, 
kill  the  capitalist  —  kill  Ditmar !" 

A  man  with  a  deputy's  shield  ran  toward  them. 

"Move  on!"  he  said  brutally.  "Move  on,  or  I'll  run 
you  in."  And  Janet,  once  clear  of  the  people,  fled  west 
ward,  the  words  the  foreigner  had  spoken  ringing  in  her 
ears.  She  found  herself  repeating  them  aloud,  "Kill  Dit 
mar!"  as  she  hurried  through  the  gathering  dusk  past  the 
power  house  with  its  bottle-shaped  chimneys,  and  crossed 
the  little  bridge  over  the  stream  beside  the  chocolate  fac 
tory.  She  gained  the  avenue  she  had  trod  with  Eda  on  that 
summer  day  of  the  circus.  Here  was  the  ragpicker's  shop, 
the  fence  covered  with  bedraggled  posters,  the  deserted 
grand-stand  of  the  base-ball  park  spread  with  a  milky-blue 
mantle  of  snow;  and  beyond,  the  monotonous  frame  cot 
tages  all  built  from  one  model.  Now  she  descried  looming 
above  her  the  outline  of  Torrey's  Hill  blurred  and  melting 
into  a  darkening  sky,  and  turned  into  the  bleak  lane  where 
stood  the  Franco-Belgian  Hall  —  Hampton  Headquarters 
of  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World.  She  halted  a 
moment  at  sight  of  the  crowd  of  strikers  loitering  in  front  of 
it,  then  went  on  again,  mingling  with  them  excitedly  beside 
the  little  building.  Its  lines  were  simple  and  unpretentious, 
and  yet  it  had  an  exotic  character  all  its  own,  differing 
strongly  from  the  surrounding  houses :  it  might  have  been 
transported  from  a  foreign  country  and  set  down  here.  As 
the  home  of  that  odd,  co-operative  society  of  thrifty  and 
gregarious  Belgians  it  had  stimulated  her  imagination,  and 
once  before  she  had  gazed,  as  now,  through  the  yellowed, 
lantern-like  windows  of  the  little  store  at  the  women  and 
children  waiting  to  fill  their  baskets  with  the  day's  provisions. 
In  the  middle  of  the  building  was  an  entrance  leading  up  to 
the  second  floor.  Presently  she  gathered  the  courage  to 
enter.  Her  heart  was  pounding  as  she  climbed  the  dark 


330  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

stairs  and  thrust  open  the  door,  and  she  stood  a  moment  on 
the  threshold  almost  choked  by  the  fumes  of  tobacco,  be 
wildered  by  the  scene  within,  confused  by  the  noise.  Through 
a  haze  of  smoke  she  beheld  groups  of  swarthy  foreigners 
fiercely  disputing  among  themselves  —  apparently  on  the 
verge  of  actual  combat,  while  a  sprinkling  of  silent  specta 
tors  of  both  sexes  stood  at  the  back  of  the  hall.  At  the  far 
end  was  a  stage,  still  set  with  painted,  sylvan  scenery,  and 
seated  there,  alone,  above  the  confusion  and  the  strife,  with 
a  calmness,  a  detachment  almost  disconcerting,  was  a 
stout  man  with  long  hair  and  a  loose  black  tie.  He  was 
smoking  a  cigar  and  reading  a  newspaper  which  he  presently 
flung  down,  taking  up  another  from  a  pile  on  the  table  be 
side  him.  Suddenly  one  of  the  groups,  shouting  and  ges 
ticulating,  surged  toward  him  and  made  an  appeal  through 
their  interpreter.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  listening ;  with 
out  so  much  as  lowering  his  newspaper  he  spoke  a  few  words 
in  reply,  and  the  group  retired,  satisfied.  By  some  incom 
prehensible  power  he  dominated.  Panting,  fascinated,  loath 
to  leave  yet  fearful,  Janet  watched  him,  breathing  now  deeply 
this  atmosphere  of  smoke,  of  strife,  and  turmoil.  She  found 
it  grateful,  for  the  strike,  the  battle  was  in  her  own  soul  as 
well.  Momentarily  she  had  forgotten  Rolfe,  who  had  been 
in  her  mind  as  she  had  come  hither,  and  then  she  caught 
sight  of  him  in  a  group  in  the  centre  of  the  hall.  He  saw 
her,  he  was  making  his  way  toward  her,  he  was  holding  her 
hands,  looking  down  into  her  face  with  that  air  of  appropri 
ation,  of  possession  she  remembered.  But  she  felt  no  re 
sentment  now,  only  a  fierce  exultation  at  having  dared. 

"You've  come  to  join  us!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  thought 
I'd  lost  you." 

He  bent  closer  to  her  that  she  might  hear. 

"We  are  having  a  meeting  of  the  Committee,"  he  said, 
and  she  smiled.  Despite  her  agitation,  this  struck  her  as 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  331 

humorous.  And  Rolf e  smiled  back  at  her.  "  You  wouldn't 
think  so,  but  Antonelli  knows  how  to  manage  them.  He  is 
a  general.  Come,  I  will  enlist  you,  you  shall  be  my  recruit." 

"But  what  can  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  been  thinking.  You  said  you  were  a  stenographer 
—  we  need  stenographers,  clerks.  You  will  not  be  wasted. 
Come  in  here/' 

Behind  her  two  box-like  rooms  occupying  the  width  of 
the  building  had  been  turned  into  offices,  and  into  one  of 
these  Rolfe  led  her.  Men  and  women  were  passing  in  and 
out,  while  in  a  corner  a  man  behind  a  desk  sat  opening 
envelopes,  deftly  extracting  bills  and  post-office  orders  and 
laying  them  in  a  drawer.  On  the  wall  of  this  same  room 
was  a  bookcase  half  filled  with  nondescript  volumes. 

"The  Bibliotheque  —  that's  French  for  the  library  of  the 
Franco-Belgian  Cooperative  Association,"  explained  Rolfe. 
"And  this  is  Comrade  Sanders.  Sanders  is  easier  to  say 
than  Czernowitz.  Here  is  the  young  lady  I  told  you  about, 
who  wishes  to  help  us  —  Miss  Bumpus." 

Mr.  Sanders  stopped  counting  his  money  long  enough  to 
grin  at  her. 

"You  will  be  welcome,"  he  said,  in  good  English.  "Ste 
nographers  are  scarce  here.  When  can  you  come?" 

"To-morrow  morning,"  answered  Janet. 

"Good,"  he  said.  "I'll  have  a  machine  for  you.  What 
kind  do  you  use?" 

She  told  him.  Instinctively  she  took  a  fancy  to  this  little 
man,  whose  flannel  shirt  and  faded  purple  necktie,  whose 
blue,  unshaven  face  and  tousled  black  hah*  seemed  incon 
gruous  with  an  alert,  business-like,  and  efficient  manner. 
His  nose,  though  not  markedly  Jewish,  betrayed  in  him  the 
blood  of  that  vital  race  which  has  triumphantly  survived  so 
many  centuries  of  bondage  and  oppression. 

"He  was  a  find,  Czernowitz  —  he  calls  himself  Sanders," 


332  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Rolfe  explained,  as  they  entered  the  hall  once  more.  "An 
operative  in  the  Patuxent,  educated  himself,  went  to  night 
school — might  have  been  a  capitalist  like  so  many  of  his  tribe 
if  he  hadn't  loved  humanity.  You'll  get  along  with  him." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall,"  she  replied. 

Rolfe  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  red  button  with  the 
letters  I.W.W.  printed  across  it.  He  pinned  it,  caressingly, 
on  her  coat. 

"Now  you  are  one  of  us!"  he  exclaimed.  "You'll  come 
to-morrow?" 

"I'll  come  to-morrow,"  she  repeated,  drawing  away  from 
him  a  little. 

"And  —  we  shall  be  friends?" 

She  nodded.     "I  must  go  now,  I  think." 

"  Addio  ! "  he  said.  "  I  shall  look  for  you.  For  the  present 
I  must  remain  here,  with  the  Committee." 


When  Janet  reached  Faber  Street  she  halted  on  the  cor 
ner  of  Stanley  to  stare  into  the  window  of  the  glorified  drug 
store.  But  she  gave  no  heed  to  the  stationery,  the  cameras 
and  candy  displayed  there,  being  in  the  emotional  state  that 
reduces  to  unreality  objects  of  the  commonplace,  everyday 
world.  Presently,  however,  she  became  aware  of  a  man 
standing  beside  her. 

"Haven't  we  met  before?"  he  asked.  "Or  —  can  I  be 
mistaken?" 

Some  oddly  familiar  quizzical  note  in  his  voice  stirred, 
as  she  turned  to  him,  a  lapsed  memory.  The  hawklike  yet 
benevolent  and  illuminating  look  he  gave  her  recalled  the 
man  at  Silliston  whom  she  had  thought  a  carpenter  — 
though  he  was  dressed  now  in  a  warm  suit  of  gray  wool, 
and  wore  a  white,  low  collar. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  333 

"In  Silliston!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why  —  what  are  you 
doing  here  ?  " 

"  Well  —  this  instant  I  was  just  looking  at  those  note- 
papers,  wondering  which  I  should  choose  if  I  really  had 
good  taste.  But  it's  very  puzzling  —  isn't  it  ?  —  when  one 
comes  from  the  country.  Xow  that  saffron  with  the  rough 
edges  is  very  —  artistic.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

She  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  though  his  face  was  serious. 

"You  don't  really  like  it,  yourself,"  she  informed  him. 

"Now  you're  reflecting  on  my  taste,"  he  declared. 

"Oh  no  —  it's  because  I  saw  the  fence  you  were  making. 
Is  it  finished  yet?" 

"I  put  the  last  pineapple  in  place  the  day  before  Christ 
mas.  Do  you  remember  the  pineapples?" 

She  nodded.     "And  the  house?  and  the  garden?" 

"Oh,  those  will  never  be  finished.  I  shouldn't  have  any 
thing  more  to  do." 

"Is  that  — all  you  do?"  she  asked. 

"It's  more  important  than  anything  else.  But  you  — 
have  you  been  back  to  Silliston  since  I  saw  you  ?  I've  been 
waiting  for  another  call." 

"You  haven't  even  thought  of  me  since,"  she  was  moved 
to  reply  in  the  same  spirit. 

"Haven't  I?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  wondered,  when  I  came 
up  here  to  Hampton,  whether  I  mightn't  meet  you  —  and 
here  you  are !  Doesn't  that  prove  it  ?  " 

She  laughed,  somewhat  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which 
he  had  diverted  her,  drawn  her  out  of  the  tense,  emotional 
mood  in  which  he  had  discovered  her.  As  before,  he  puzzled 
her,  but  the  absence  of  any  flirtatious  suggestion  in  his  talk 
gave  her  confidence.  He  was  just  friendly. 

"Sometimes  I  hoped  I  might  see  you  in  Hampton,"  she 
ventured. 

"W7ell,  here  I  am.     I  heard  the  explosion,  and  came." 


334  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"The  explosion!  The  strike  I"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly 
enlightened.  "Now  I  remember!  You  said  something 
about  Hampton  being  nitro-glycerine  —  human  nitro-glycer- 
ine.  You  predicted  this  strike." 

"Did  I?  perhaps  I  did,"  he  assented.  "Maybe  you 
suggested  the  idea." 

"I  suggested  it !  Oh  no,  I  didn't  —  it  was  new  to  me,  it 
frightened  me  at  the  time,  but  it  started  me  thinking  about 
a  lot  of  things  that  had  never  occurred  to  me." 

"You  might  have  suggested  the  idea  without  intending  to, 
you  know.  There  are  certain  people  who  inspire  prophecies 
—  perhaps  you  are  one." 

His  tone  was  playful,  but  she  was  quick  to  grasp  at  an 
inference  —  since  his  glance  was  fixed  on  the  red  button  she 
wore. 

"You  meant  that  I  would  explode,  too!" 

"Oh  no  —  nothing  so  terrible  as  that,"  he  disclaimed. 
"And  yet  most  of  us  have  explosives  stored  away  inside  of 
us  —  instincts,  impulses  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  that 
won't  stand  too  much  bottling-up." 

"Yes,  I've  joined  the  strike."  She  spoke  somewhat 
challengingly,  though  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  de 
fiance  was  somewhat  out  of  place  with  him.  "I  suppose 
you  think  it  strange,  since  I'm  not  a  foreigner  and  haven't 
worked  in  the  mills.  But  I  don't  see  why  that  should  make 
any  difference  if  you  believe  that  the  workers  haven't  had 
a  chance." 

"No  difference,"  he  agreed,  pleasantly,  "no  difference  at 
all." 

"Don't  you  sympathize  with  the  strikers?"  she  insisted. 
"Or  —  are  you  on  the  other  side,  the  side  of  the  capitalists  ? " 

"I?    I'm  a  spectator  —  an  innocent  bystander." 

"You  don't  sympathize  with  the  workers?"  she  cried. 

"Indeed  I  do.    I  sympathize  with  everybody." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  335 

"With  the  capitalists ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Because  they've  had  everything  their  own 
way,  they've  exploited  the  workers,  deceived  and  oppressed 
them,  taken  all  the  profits."  She  was  using  glibly  her  newly 
acquired  labour  terminology. 

"Isn't  that  a  pretty  good  reason  for  sympathizing  with 
them?"  he  inquired. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  it  might  be  difficult  to  be  happy 
and  have  done  all  that.  At  any  rate,  it  isn't  my  notion  of 
happiness.  Is  it  yours?" 

For  a  moment  she  considered  this. 

"No  —  not  exactly,"  she  admitted.  "But  they  seem 
happy,"  she  insisted  vehemently,  "they  have  everything 
they  want  and  they  do  exactly  as  they  please  without  con 
sidering  anybody  except  themselves.  What  do  they  care 
how  many  they  starve  and  make  miserable  ?  You  —  you 
don't  know,  you  can't  know  what  it  is  to  be  driven  and 
used  and  flung  away!" 

Almost  in  tears,  she  did  not  notice  his  puzzled  yet  sympa 
thetic  glance. 

"The  operatives,  the  workers  create  all  the  wealth,  and 
the  capitalists  take  it  from  them,  from  their  wives  and 
children." 

"Now  I  know  what  you've  been  doing,"  he  said  accusingly. 
"You've  been  studying  economics." 

Her  brow  puckered. 

"Study ing  what?" 

"Economics  —  the  distribution  of  wealth.  It's  enough 
to  upset  anybody." 

"But  I'm  not  upset,"  she  insisted,  smiling  in  spite  of 
herself  at  his  comical  concern. 

"It's  very  exciting.     I  remember  reading  a  book  once  on 


336  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

economics  and  such  things,  and  I  couldn't  sleep  for  a  week. 
It  was  called  'The  Organization  of  Happiness/  I  believe,  and 
it  described  just  how  the  world  ought  to  be  arranged  —  and 
isn't.  I  thought  seriously  of  going  to  Washington  and  tell 
ing  the  President  and  Congress  about  it." 

"It  wouldn't  have  done  any  good,"  said  Janet. 

"No,  I  realized  that." 

"The  only  thing  that  will  do  any  good  is  to  strike  and 
keep  on  striking  until  the  workers  own  the  mills  —  take 
everything  away  from  the  capitalists." 

"It's  very  simple,"  he  agreed,  "much  simpler  than  the 
book  I  read.  That's  what  they  call  syndicalism,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes."  She  was  conscious  of  his  friendliness,  of  the  fact 
that  his  skepticism  was  not  cynical,  yet  she  felt  a  strong 
desire  to  convince  him,  to  vindicate  her  new  creed.  "  There's 
a  man  named  Rolfe,  an  educated  man  who's  lived  in  Italy 
and  England,  who  explains  it  wonderfully.  He's  one  of 
the  I.W.W.  leaders  —  you  ought  to  hear  him." 

"Rolfe  converted  you?    I'll  go  to  hear  him." 

"  Yes  —  but  you  have  to  feel  it,  you  have  to  know  what 
it  is  to  be  kept  down  and  crushed.  If  you'd  only  stay  here 
awhile — " 

"Oh,  I  intend  to,"  he  replied. 

She  could  not  have  said  why,  but  she  felt  a  certain  relief 
on  hearing  this. 

"Then  you'll  see  for  yourself !"  she  cried.  "I  guess  that's 
what  you've  come  for,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  partly.  To  tell  the  truth,  I've  come  to  open  a 
restaurant." 

"To  open  a  restaurant!"  Somehow  she  was  unable  to 
imagine  him  as  the  proprietor  of  a  restaurant.  "  But  — 
isn't  it  rather  a  bad  time?"  she  gasped. 

"  I  don't  look  as  if  I  had  an  eye  for  business  —  do  I  ? 
But  I  have.  No,  it's  a  good  time  —  so  many  people  will  be 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  337 

hungry,  especially  children.  I'm  going  to  open  a  restaurant 
for  children.  Oh,  it  will  be  very  modest,  of  course  —  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  call  it  a  soup  kitchen." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  staring  at  him.  "Then  you  really 
—  "  the  sentence  remained  unfinished.  "I'm  sorry,"  she 
said  simply.  "  You  made  me  think  — 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  pay  any  attention  to  what  I  say. 
Come  'round  and  see  my  establishment,  Number  77  Dey 
Street,  one  flight  up,  no  elevator.  Will  you?" 

She  laughed  tremulously  as  he  took  her  hand. 

"Yes  indeed,  I  will,"  she  promised.  And  she  stood  awhile 
staring  after  him.  She  was  glad  he  had  come  to  Hampton, 
and  yet  she  did  not  even  know  his  name. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
1 

SHE  had  got  another  place  —  such  was  the  explanation 
of  her  new  activities  Janet  gave  to  Hannah,  who  received 
it  passively.  And  the  question  dreaded  about  Ditmar 
was  never  asked.  Hannah  had  become  as  a  child,  perform 
ing  her  tasks  by  the  momentum  of  habituation,  occasionally 
talking  simply  of  trivial,  every-day  affairs,  as  though  the 
old  life  were  going  on  continuously.  At  times,  indeed, 
she  betrayed  concern  about  Edward,  wondering  whether  he 
were  comfortable  at  the  mill,  and  she  washed  and  darned 
the  clothes  he  sent  home  by  messenger.  She  hoped  he  would 
not  catch  cold.  Her  suffering  seemed  to  have  relaxed.  It 
was  as  though  the  tortured  portion  of  her  brain  had  at 
length  been  seared.  To  Janet,  her  mother's  condition  — 
when  she  had  time  to  think  of  it  —  was  at  once  a  relief 
and  a  new  and  terrible  source  of  anxiety. 

Mercifully,  however,  she  had  little  leisure  to  reflect  on 
that  tragedy,  else  her  own  sanity  might  have  been  endan 
gered.  As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  she  hurried  across 
the  city  to  the  Franco-Belgian  Hall,  and  often  did  not  re 
turn  until  nine  o'clock  at  night,  usually  so  tired  that  she 
sank  into  bed  and  fell  asleep.  For  she  threw  herself  into 
her  new  labours  with  the  desperate  energy  that  seeks  for- 
getfulness,  not  daring  to  pause  to  think  about  herself,  to 
reflect  upon  what  the  future  might  hold  for  her  when  the 
strike  should  be  over.  Nor  did  she  confine  herself  to  type 
writing,  but,  as  with  Ditmar,  constantly  assumed  a  greater 

338 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  339 

burden  of  duty,  helping  Czernowitz  —  who  had  the  work 
of  five  men  —  with  his  accounts,  with  the  distribution  of 
the  funds  to  the  ever-increasing  number  of  the  needy  who 
were  facing  starvation.  The  money  was  paid  out  to  them 
in  proportion  to  the  size  of  their  families;  as  the  strike 
became  more  and  more  effective  their  number  increased 
until  many  mills  had  closed;  other  mills,  including  the 
Chippering,  were  still  making  a  desperate  attempt  to  operate 
their  looms,  and  sixteen  thousand  operatives  were  idle. 
She  grew  to  know  these  operatives  who  poured  all  day 
long  in  a  steady  stream  through  Headquarters;  she  heard 
their  stories,  she  entered  into  their  lives,  she  made  decisions. 
Some,  even  in  those  early  days  of  the  strike,  were  frauds, 
were  hiding  their  savings ;  but  for  the  most  part  investiga 
tion  revealed  an  appalling  destitution,  a  resolution  to  suffer 
for  the  worker's  cause.  A  few  complained,  the  majority 
were  resigned;  some  indeed  showed  exaltation  and  fire, 
were  undaunted  by  the  task  of  picketing  in  the  cold  mornings, 
by  the  presence  of  the  soldiery.  In  this  work  of  dealing 
with  the  operatives  Janet  had  the  advice  and  help  of  Anna 
Mower,  a  young  woman  who  herself  had  been  a  skilled 
operative  in  the  Clarendon  Mill,  and  who  was  giving  evi 
dence  of  unusual  qualities  of  organization  and  leadership. 
Anna,  with  no  previous  practise  in  oratory,  had  suddenly 
developed  the  gift  of  making  speeches,  the  more  effective 
with  her  fellow  workers  because  unstudied,  because  they 
flowed  directly  out  of  an  experience  she  was  learning  to  in 
terpret  and  universalize.  Janet,  who  heard  her  once  or 
twice,  admired  and  envied  her.  They  became  friends. 

The  atmosphere  of  excitement  in  which  Janet  now  found 
herself  was  cumulative.  Day  by  day  one  strange  event 
followed  another,  and  at  times  it  seemed  as  if  this  extraor 
dinary  existence  into  which  she  had  been  plunged  were  all 
a  feverish  dream.  Hither,  to  the  absurd  little  saUe  de 


340  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

reunion  of  the  Franco-Belgian  Hall  came  notables  from  the 
great  world,  emissaries  from  an  uneasy  Governor,  delega 
tions  from  the  Legislature,  Members  of  the  Congress  of  the 
United  States  and  even  Senators;  students,  investigators, 
men  and  women  of  prominence  in  the  universities,  magazine 
writers  to  consult  with  uncouth  leaders  of  a  rebellion  that 
defied  and  upset  the  powers  which  hitherto  had  so  serenely 
ruled,  unchallenged.  Rolfe  identified  these  visitors,  and 
one  morning  called  her  attention  to  one  who  he  said  was 
the  nation's  foremost  authority  on  social  science.  Janet 
possessed  all  unconsciously  the  New  England  reverence 
for  learning,  she  was  stirred  by  the  sight  of  this  distinguished- 
looking  person  who  sat  on  the  painted  stage,  fingering  his 
glasses  and  talking  to  Antonelli.  The  two  men  made  a 
curious  contrast.  But  her  days  were  full  of  contrasts  of 
which  her  mood  exultingly  approved.  The  politicians 
were  received  cavalierly.  Toward  these,  who  sought  to  act 
as  go-betweens  in  the  conflict,  Antonelli  was  contemptuous ; 
he  behaved  like  the  general  of  a  conquering  army,  and  his 
audacity  was  reflected  in  the  other  leaders,  in  Rolfe,  in  the 
Committee  itself. 

That  Committee,  a  never-ending  source  of  wonder  to 
Janet,  with  its  nine  or  ten  nationalities  and  interpreters, 
was  indeed  a  triumph  over  the  obstacles  of  race  and  lan 
guage,  a  Babel  made  successful ;  in  a  community  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  traditions,  an  amazing  anomaly.  The  habiliments  of 
the  west,  the  sack  coats  and  sweaters,  the  slouch  hats  and 
caps,  the  so-called  Derbies  pulled  down  over  dark  brows 
and  flashing  eyes  lent  to  these  peasant  types  an  incongruity 
that  had  the  air  of  ferocity.  The  faces  of  most  of  them 
were  covered  with  a  blue-black  stubble  of  beard.  Some 
slouched  in  their  chairs,  others  stood  and  talked  in  groups, 
gesticulating  with  cigars  and  pipes;  yet  a  keen  spectator, 
after  watching  them  awhile  through  the  smoke,  might  have 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  341 

been  able  to  pick  out  striking  personalities  among  them. 
He  would  surely  have  noticed  Froment,  the  stout,  limping 
man  under  whose  white  eyebrows  flashed  a  pair  of  livid 
blue  and  peculiarly  Gallic  eyes ;  he  held  the  Belgians  in  his 
hand :  Lindtzki,  the  Pole,  with  his  zealot's  face ;  Radeau, 
the  big  Canadian  in  the  checked  Mackinaw;  and  Findley, 
the  young  American  —  less  by  any  arresting  quality  of 
feature  than  by  an  expression  suggestive  of  practical  wisdom. 

Imagine  then,  on  an  afternoon  in  the  middle  phase  of 
the  strike,  some  half  dozen  of  the  law-makers  of  a  sovereign 
state,  top-hatted  and  conventionally  garbed  in  black,  ac 
customed  to  authority,  to  conferring  favours  instead  of 
requesting  them,  climbing  the  steep  stairs  and  pausing  on 
the  threshold  of  that  hall,  fingering  their  watch  chains, 
awaiting  recognition  by  the  representatives  of  the  new  and 
bewildering  force  that  had  arisen  in  an  historic  common 
wealth.  A  "debate"  was  in  progress.  Some  of  the  de 
baters,  indeed,  looked  over  their  shoulders,  but  the  leader, 
who  sat  above  them  framed  in  the  sylvan  setting  of  the 
stage,  never  so  much  as  deigned  to  glance  up  from  his  news 
paper.  A  half-burned  cigar  rolled  between  his  mobile  lips, 
he  sat  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  yet  he  had  an  air  Napo 
leonic  ;  Nietzschean,  it  might  better  be  said  —  although  it 
is  safe  to  assert  that  these  moulders  of  American  institutions 
knew  little  about  that  terrible  philosopher  who  had  raised 
his  voice  against  the  "slave  morals  of  Christianity."  It 
was  their  first  experience  with  the  superman.  ...  It  remained 
for  the  Canadian,  Radeau,  when  a  lull  arrived  hi  the  tur 
moil,  to  suggest  that  the  gentlemen  be  given  chairs. 

"Sure,  give  them  chairs,"  assented  Antonelli  in  a  voice 
hoarse  from  speech-making.  Breath-taking  audacity  to 
certain  spectators  who  had  followed  the  delegation  hither, 
some  of  whom  could  not  refrain  from  speculating  whether  it 
heralded  the  final  scrapping  of  the  machinery  of  the  state; 


342  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

amusing  to  cynical  metropolitan  reporters,  who  grinned  at 
one  another  as  they  prepared  to  take  down  the  proceedings ; 
evoking  a  fierce  approval  in  the  breasts  of  all  rebels  — 
among  whom  was  Janet.  The  Legislative  Chairman,  a 
stout  and  suave  gentleman  of  Irish  birth,  proceeded  to  ex 
plain  how  greatly  concerned  was  the  Legislature  that  the 
deplorable  warfare  within  the  state  should  cease;  they  had 
come,  he  declared,  to  aid  in  bringing  about  justice  between 
labour  and  capital. 

"  We'll  get  justice  without  the  help  of  the  state,"  remarked 
Antonelli  curtly,  while  a  murmur  of  approval  ran  through 
the  back  of  the  hall. 

That  was  scarcely  the  attitude,  said  the  Chairman,  he 
had  expected.  He  knew  that  such  a  strike  as  this  had 
engendered  bitterness,  there  had  been  much  suffering,  sac 
rifice  undoubtedly  on  both  sides,  but  he  was  sure,  if  Mr. 
Antonelli  and  the  Committee  would  accept  their  services  — 
here  he  was  interrupted. 

Had  the  mill  owners  accepted  their  services  ? 

The  Chairman  cleared  his  throat. 

The  fact  was  that  the  mill  owners  were  more  difficult  to 
get  together  in  a  body.  A  meeting  would  be  arranged  — 

"When  you  arrange  a  meeting,  let  me  know,"  said  An 
tonelli. 

A  laugh  went  around  the  room.  It  was  undoubtedly 
very  difficult  to  keep  one's  temper  under  such  treatment. 
The  Chairman  looked  it. 

"A  meeting  would  be  arranged,"  he  declared,  with  a  long- 
suffering  expression.  He  even  smiled  a  little.  "In  the 
meantime  — " 

"What  can  your  committee  do?"  demanded  one  of  the 
strike  leaders,  passionately  —  it  was  Findley.  "If  you 
find  one  party  wrong,  can  your  state  force  it  to  do  right? 
Can  you  legislators  be  impartial  when  you  have  not  lived 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  343 

the  bitter  life  of  the  workers?  Would  you  arbitrate  a 
question  of  life  and  death?  And  are  the  worst  wages  paid 
in  these  mills  anything  short  of  death  ?  Do  you  investigate 
because  conditions  are  bad?  or  because  the  workers  broke 
loose  and  struck  ?  Why  did  you  not  come  before  the  strike  ?  " 

This  drew  more  approval  from  the  rear.  Why,  indeed? 
The  Chairman  was  adroit,  he  had  pulled  himself  out  of  many 
tight  places  in  the  Assembly  Chamber,  but  now  he  began 
to  perspire,  to  fumble  in  his  coat  tails  for  a  handkerchief. 
The  Legislature,  he  maintained,  could  not  undertake  to  in 
vestigate  such  matters  until  called  to  its  attention.  .  .  . 

Later  on  a  tall  gentleman,  whom  heaven  had  not  blessed 
with  tact,  saw  fit  to  deplore  the  violence  that  had  occurred ; 
he  had  no  doubt  the  leaders  of  the  strike  regretted  it  as 
much  as  he,  he  was  confident  it  w^ould  be  stopped,  when 
public  opinion  would  be  wholly  and  unreservedly  on  the 
side  of  the  strikers. 

"Public  opinion  I"  savagely  cried  Lindtzki,  who  spoke 
English  with  only  a  slight  accent.  "If  your  little  boy,  if 
your  little  girl  come  to  you  and  ask  for  shoes,  for  bread,  and 
you  say, '  I  have  no  shoes,  I  have  no  bread,  but  public  opinion 
is  with  us/  would  that  satisfy  you?" 

This  drew  so  much  applause  that  the  tall  law-maker  sat 
down  again  with  a  look  of  disgust  on  his  face.  .  .  .  The  Com 
mittee  withdrew,  and  for  many  weeks  thereafter  the  state 
they  represented  continued  to  pay  some  four  thousand 
dollars  daily  to  keep  its  soldiers  on  the  streets  of  Hampton 


In  the  meanwhile  Janet  saw  much  of  Rolfe.  Owing  to 
his  facile  command  of  language  he  was  peculiarly  fitted  to 
draft  those  proclamations,  bombastically  worded  in  the 
French  style,  issued  and  circulated  by  the  Strike  Committee 


344  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

—  appeals  to  the  polyglot  army  to  withstand  the  pangs  of 
hunger,  to  hold  out  for  the  terms  laid  down,  assurances 
that  victory  was  at  hand.  Walking  up  and  down  the  biblio- 
theque,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  his  red  lips  gleaming 
as  he  spoke,  he  dictated  these  documents  to  Janet.  In  the 
ecstasy  of  this  composition  he  had  a  way  of  shaking  his 
head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  and  when  she  looked  up  she 
saw  his  eyes  burning  down  at  her.  A  dozen  times  a  day, 
while  she  was  at  her  other  work,  he  would  come  in  and  talk 
to  her.  He  excited  her,  she  was  divided  between  attraction 
and  fear  of  him,  and  often  she  resented  his  easy  assumption 
that  a  tie  existed  between  them  —  the  more  so  because  this 
seemed  to  be  taken  for  granted  among  certain  of  his  asso 
ciates.  In  their  eyes,  apparently,  she  was  Rolfe's  recruit 
in  more  senses  than  one.  It  was  indeed  a  strange  society 
in  which  she  found  herself,  and  Rolfe  typified  it.  He  lived 
on  the  plane  of  the  impulses  and  intellect,  discarded  as 
inhibiting  factors  what  are  called  moral  standards,  decried 
individual  discipline  and  restraint.  And  while  she  had 
never  considered  these  things,  the  spectacle  of  a  philosophy 
—  embodied  in  him  —  that  frankly  and  cynically  threw 
them  overboard  was  disconcerting.  He  regarded  her  as  his 
proselyte,  he  called  her  a  Puritan,  and  he  seemed  more 
concerned  that  she  should  shed  these  relics  of  an  ancestral 
code  than  acquire  the  doctrines  of  Sorel  and  Pouget.  And 
yet  association  with  him  presented  the  allurement  of  a 
dangerous  adventure.  Intellectually  he  fascinated  her; 
and  still  another  motive  —  which  she  partially  disguised 
from  herself  —  prevented  her  from  repelling  him.  That 
motive  had  to  do  with  Ditmar.  She  tried  to  put  Ditmar 
from  her  mind ;  she  sought  in  desperation,  not  only  to  keep 
busy,  but  to  steep  and  lose  herself  in  this  fierce  creed  as  an 
antidote  to  the  insistent,  throbbing  pain  that  lay  ambushed 
against  her  moments  of  idleness.  The  second  evening  of 
her  installation  at  Headquarters  she  had  worked  beyond 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  345 

the  supper  hour,  helping  Sanders  with  his  accounts.  She 
was  loath  to  go  home.  And  when  at  last  she  put  on  her 
hat  and  coat  and  entered  the  hall  Rolfe,  who  had  been 
talking  to  Jastro,  immediately  approached  her.  His  liquid 
eyes  regarded  her  solicitously. 

"You  must  be  hungry,"  he  said.  " Come  out  with  me  and 
have  some  supper." 

But  she  was  not  hungry ;  what  she  needed  was  air.  Then 
he  would  walk  a  little  way  with  her  —  he  wanted  to  talk  to 
her.  She  hesitated,  and  then  consented.  A  fierce  hope 
had  again  taken  possession  of  her,  and  when  they  came  to 
Warren  Street  she  turned  into  it. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Rolfe  demanded. 

"For  a  walk,"  she  said.     "Aren't  you  corning?" 

"Will  you  have  supper  afterwards ? " 

"Perhaps." 

He  followed  her,  puzzled,  yet  piqued  and  excited  by  her 
manner,  as  with  rapid  steps  she  hurried  along  the  pavement. 
He  tried  to  tell  her  what  her  friendship  meant  to  him ;  they 
were,  he  declared,  kindred  spirits  —  from  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  her,  on  the  Common,  he  had  known  this.  She 
scarcely  heard  him,  she  was  thinking  of  Ditmar;  and  this 
was  why  she  had  led  Rolfe  into  W^arren  Street  —  they  might 
meet  Ditmar !  It  was  possible  that  he  would  be  going  to 
the  mill  at  this  time,  after  his  dinner  !  She  scrutinized  every 
distant  figure,  and  when  they  reached  the  block  in  which  he 
lived  she  walked  more  slowly.  From  within  the  house  came 
to  her,  faintly,  the  notes  of  a  piano  —  his  daughter  Amy  was 
practising.  It  was  the  music,  a  hackneyed  theme  of  Schu 
bert's  played  heavily,  that  seemed  to  arouse  the  composite 
emotion  of  anger  and  hatred,  yet  of  sustained  attraction 
and  wild  regret  she  had  felt  before,  but  never  so  poignantly 
as  now.  And  she  lingered,  perversely  resolved  to  steep 
herself  in  the  agony. 


346  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Who  lives  here?"  Rolfe  asked. 

"Mr.  Ditmar,"  she  answered. 

"The  agent  of  the  Chippering  Mill?" 

She  nodded. 

"He's  the  worst  of  the  lot,"  Rolfe  said  angrily.  "If 
it  weren't  for  him,  we'd  have  this  strike  won  to-day.  He 
owns  this  town,  he's  run  it  to  suit  himself.  He  stiffens 
up  the  owners  and  holds  the  other  mills  in  line.  He's  a 
type,  a  driver,  the  kind  of  man  we  must  get  rid  of.  Look 
at  him  —  he  lives  in  luxury  while  his  people  are  starving." 

"Get  rid  of !"  repeated  Janet,  in  an  odd  voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  shoot  him,"  Rolfe  declared.  "But 
he  may  get  shot,  for  all  I  know,  by  some  of  these  slaves  he's 
made  desperate." 

"They  wouldn't  dare  shoot  him,"  Janet  said.  "And 
whatever  he  is,  he  isn't  a  coward.  He's  stronger  than  the 
others,  he's  more  of  a  man." 

Rolfe  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?"  he  asked. 

"I  —  I  know  all  about  him.     I  was  his  stenographer." 

"  You !  His  stenographer !  Then  why  are  you  here  with 
us?" 

"Because  I  hate  him  !"  she  cried  vehemently.  "Because 
I've  learned  that  it's  true  —  what  you  say  about  the  mas 
ters —  they  only  think  of  themselves  and  their  kind,  and 
not  of  us.  They  use  us." 

"He  tried  to  use  you  !    You  loved  him  !" 

"How  dare  you  say  that !" 

He  fell  back  before  her  anger. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  was 
jealous  —  I'm  jealous  of  every  man  you've  known.  I  want 
you.  I've  never  met  a  woman  like  you." 

They  were  the  very  words  Ditmar  had  used  !  She  did  not 
answer,  and  for  a  while  they  walked  along  in  silence,  leaving 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  347 

Warren  Street  and  cutting  across  the  city  until  they  came 
in  sight  of  the  Common.  Rolfe  drew  nearer  to  her. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  pleaded.  "You  know  I  would  not 
offend  you.  Come,  we'll  have  supper  together^  and  I  will 
teach  you  more  of  what  you  have  to  know." 

"Where?  "she  asked. 

"  At  the  Hampton  —  it  is  a  little  cafe  where  we  all  go. 
Perhaps  you've  been  there." 

"No,"  said  Janet. 

"It  doesn't  compare  with  the  cafes  of  Europe  —  or  of  New 
York.  Perhaps  we  shall  go  to  them  sometime,  together. 
But  it  is  cosy,  and  warm,  and  all  the  leaders  will  be  there. 
You'll  come  — yes?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  she  said.  . 


The  Hampton  was  one  of  the  city's  second-class  hotels, 
but  sufficiently  pretentious  to  have,  in  its  basement,  a 
"cafe"  furnished  in  the  "mission"  style  of  brass  tacks  and 
dull  red  leather.  In  the  warm,  food-scented  air  fantastic 
wisps  of  smoke  hung  over  the  groups;  among  them  Janet 
made  out  several  of  the  itinerant  leaders  of  Syndicalism, 
loose-tied,  debonnair,  giving  a  tremendous  impression  of  free 
dom  as  they  laughed  and  chatted  with  the  women.  For 
there  were  women,  ranging  from  the  redoubtable  Nellie 
Bond  herself  down  to  those  who  may  be  designated  as  camp- 
followers.  Rolfe,  as  he  led  Janet  to  a  table  in  a  corner  of 
the  room,  greeted  his  associates  with  easy  camaraderie. 
From  Miss  Bond  he  received  an  illuminating  smile.  Janet 
wondered  at  her  striking  good  looks,  at  the  boldness  and 
abandon  with  which  she  talked  to  Jastro  or  exchanged 
sallies  across  the  room.  The  atmosphere  of  this  tawdry 
resort,  formerly  frequented  by  shop  girls  and  travelling 


348  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

salesmen,  was  magically  transformed  by  the  presence  of 
this  company,  made  bohemian,  cosmopolitan,  exhilarating. 
And  Janet,  her  face  flushed,  sat  gazing  at  the  scene,  while 
Rolfe  consulted  the  bill  of  fare  and  chose  a  beefsteak  and 
French  fried  potatoes.  The  apathetic  waiter  in  the  soiled 
linen  jacket  he  addressed  as  "comrade."  Janet  protested 
when  he  ordered  cocktails. 

"You  must  learn  to  live,  to  relax,  to  enjoy  yourself," 
he  declared. 

But  a  horror  of  liquor  held  her  firm  in  her  refusal.  Rolfe 
drank  his,  and  while  they  awaited  the  beefsteak  she  was 
silent,  the  prey  of  certain  misgivings  that  suddenly  assailed 
her.  Lise,  she  remembered,  had  sometimes  mentioned 
this  place,  though  preferring  Gruber's :  and  she  was  struck 
by  the  contrast  between  this  spectacle  and  the  grimness  of 
the  strike  these  people  had  come  to  encourage  and  sustain, 
the  conflict  in  the  streets,  the  suffering  in  the  tenements. 
She  glanced  at  Rolfe,  noting  the  manner  in  which  he  smoked 
cigarettes,  sensually,  as  though  seeking  to  wring  out  of 
each  all  there  was  to  be  got  before  flinging  it  down  and 
lighting  another.  Again  she  was  struck  by  the  anomaly  of 
a  religion  that  had  indeed  enthusiasms,  sacrifices  perhaps, 
but  no  disciplines.  He  threw  it  out  in  snatches,  this  reli 
gion,  while  relating  the  histories  of  certain  persons  in  the 
room :  of  Jastro,  for  instance,  letting  fall  a  hint  to  the 
effect  that  this  evangelist  and  Miss  Bond  were  dwelling 
together  in  more  than  amity. 

"Then  you  don't  believe  in  marriage?"  she  demanded, 
suddenly. 

Rolfe  laughed. 

"What  is  it,"  he  exclaimed,  "but  the  survival  of  the 
system  of  property?  It's  slavery,  taboo,  a  device  upheld 
by  the  master  class  to  keep  women  in  bondage,  in  super 
stition,  by  inducing  them  to  accept  it  as  a  decree  of  God. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  349 

Did  the  masters  themselves  ever  respect  it,  or  any  other 
decrees  of  God  they  preached  to  the  slaves  ?  Read  history, 
and  you  will  see.  They  had  their  loves,  their  mistresses. 
Read  the  newspapers,  and  you  will  find  out  whether  they 
respect  it  to-day.  But  they  are  very  anxious  to  have  you 
and  me  respect  it  and  all  the  other  Christian  command 
ments,  because  they  will  prevent  us  from  being  discontented. 
They  say  that  we  must  be  satisfied  with  the  situation  in 
this  world  in  which  God  has  placed  us,  and  we  shall  have 
our  reward  in  the  next." 

She  shivered  slightly,  not  only  at  the  ideas  thus  abruptly 
enunciated,  but  because  it  occurred  to  her  that  those  others 
must  be  taking  for  granted  a  certain  relationship  between 
herself  and  Rolfe.  .  .  .  But  presently,  when  the  supper 
arrived,  these  feelings  changed.  She  was  very  hungry, 
and  the  effect  of  the  food,  of  the  hot  coffee  was  to  dispel 
her  doubt  and  repugnance,  to  throw  a  glamour  over  the 
adventure,  to  restore  to  Rolfe's  arguments  an  exciting  and 
alluring  appeal.  And  with  renewed  physical  energy  she 
began  to  experience  once  more  a  sense  of  fellowship  with 
these  free  and  daring  spirits  who  sought  to  avenge  her  wrongs 
and  theirs. 

"For  us  who  create  there  are  no  rules  of  conduct,  no 
conventions,"  Rolfe  was  saying,  "we  do  not  care  for  the 
opinions  of  the  middle  class,  of  the  bourgeois.  With  us 
men  and  women  are  on  an  equality.  It  is  fear  that  has  kept 
the  workers  down,  and  now  we  have  cast  that  off  —  we 
know  our  strength.  As  they  say  in  Italy,  il  mondo  e  achi  se  lo 
piglia,  the  world  belongs  to  him  who  is  bold." 

"Italian  is  a  beautiful  language,"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  will  teach  you  Italian,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  learn  —  so  much  !"  she  sighed. 

"Your  soul  is  parched,"  he  said,  in  a  commiserating 
tone.  "I  will  water  it,  I  will  teach  you  everything."  His 


350  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

words  aroused  a  faint,  derisive  echo :  Ditmar  had  wished 
to  teach  her,  too !  But  now  she  was  strongly  under  the 
spell  of  the  new  ideas  hovering  like  shining,  gossamer 
spirits  just  beyond  her  reach,  that  she  sought  to  grasp  and 
correlate.  Unlike  the  code  which  Rolfe  condemned,  they 
seemed  not  to  be  separate  from  life,  opposed  to  it,  but  entered 
even  into  that  most  important  of  its  elements,  sex.  In 
deference  to  that  other  code  Ditmar  had  made  her  his 
mistress,  and  because  he  was  concerned  for  his  position 
and  the  security  of  the  ruling  class  had  sought  to  hide  the 
fact.  .  .  .  Rolfe,  with  a  cigarette  between  his  red  lips,  sat 
back  in  his  chair,  regarding  with  sensuous  enjoyment  the 
evident  effect  of  his  arguments. 

"But  love?"  she  interrupted,  when  presently  he  had 
begun  to  talk  again.  She  strove  inarticulately  to  express 
an  innate  feminine  objection  to  relationships  that  were  made 
and  broken  at  pleasure. 

"Love  is  nothing  but  attraction  between  the  sexes,  the 
life-force  working  in  us.  And  when  that  attraction  ceases, 
what  is  left  ?  Bondage.  The  hideous  bondage  of  Christian 
marriage,  in  which  women  promise  to  love  and  obey  forever." 

"But  women  —  women  are  not  like  men.  When  once 
they  give  themselves  they  do  not  so.  easily  cease  to  love. 
They  —  they  suffer." 

He  did  not  seem  to  observe  the  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"Ah,  that  is  sentiment,"  he  declared,  "something  that 
will  not  trouble  women  when  they  have  work  to  do,  inspiring 
work.  It  takes  time  to  change  our  ideas,  to  learn  to  see 
things  as  they  are."  He  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "But 
you  will  learn,  you  are  like  some  of  those  rare  women  in 
history  who  have  had  the  courage  to  cast  off  traditions. 
You  were  not  made  to  be  a  drudge.  ..." 

But  now  her  own  words,  not  his,  were  ringing  in  her  head 
—  women  do  not  so  easily  cease  to  love,  they  suffer.  In 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  351 

spite  of  the  new  creed  she  had  so  eagerly  and  fiercely  em 
braced,  in  which  she  had  sought  deliverance  and  retribu 
tion,  did  she  still  love  Ditmar,  and  suffer  because  of  him? 
She  repudiated  the  suggestion,  yet  it  persisted  as  she  glanced 
at  Rolfe's  red  lips  and  compared  him  with  Ditmar.  Love ! 
Rolfe  might  call  it  what  he  would  —  the  life-force,  attrac 
tion  between  the  sexes,  but  it  was  proving  stronger  than 
causes  and  beliefs.  He  too  was  making  love  to  her;  like 
Ditmar,  he  wanted  her  to  use  and  fling  away  when  he  should 
grow  weary.  Was  he  not  pleading  for  himself  rather  than 
for  the  human  cause  he  professed?  taking  advantage  of 
her  ignorance  and  desperation,  of  her  craving  for  new  ex 
perience  and  knowledge?  The  suspicion  sickened  her. 
Were  all  men  like  that?  Suddenly,  without  apparent 
premeditation  or  connection,  the  thought  of  the  stranger 
from  Silliston  entered  her  mind.  Was  he  like  that  ?  . . . 
Rolfe  was  bending  toward  her  across  the  table,  solicitously. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

Her  reply  was  listless. 

"Nothing  —  except  that  I'm  tired.     I  want  to  go  home." 

"Not  now,"  he  begged.     "It's  early  yet." 

But  she  insisted.  . 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  next  day  at  the  noon  hour  Janet  entered  Dey  Street. 
Cheek  by  jowl  there  with  the  tall  tenements  whose  spindled- 
pillared  porches  overhung  the  darkened  pavements  were 
smaller  houses  of  all  ages  and  descriptions,  their  lower 
floors  altered  to  accommodate  shops ;  while  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  block  stood  a  queer  wooden  building  with  two  rows  of 
dormer  windows  let  into  its  high-pitched  roof.  It  bore  a 
curious  resemblance  to  a  town  hall  in  the  low  countries. 
In  front  of  it  the  street  was  filled  with  children  gazing  up  at 
the  doorway  where  a  man  stood  surveying  them  —  the 
stranger  from  Silliston.  There  was  a  rush  toward  him,  a 
rush  that  drove  Janet  against  the  wall  almost  at  his  side, 
and  he  held  up  his  hands  in  mock  despair,  gently  imped 
ing  the  little  bodies  that  strove  to  enter.  He  bent  over 
them  to  examine  the  numerals,  printed  on  pasteboard, 
they  wore  on  their  breasts.  His  voice  was  cheerful,  yet 
compassionate. 

"It's  hard  to  wait,  I  know.  I'm  hungry  myself,"  he 
said.  "  But  we  can't  all  go  up  at  once.  The  building  would 
fall  down !  One  to  one  hundred  now,  and  the  second  hun 
dred  will  be  first  for  supper.  That's  fair,  isn't  it?" 

Dozens  of  hands  were  raised. 

"  I'm  twenty-nine  ! " 

"Fm  three,  mister!" 

"I'm  forty-one!" 

He  let  them  in,  one  by  one,  and  they  clattered  up  the 

352 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  353 

stairs,  as  he  seized  a  tiny  girl  bundled  in  a  dark  red  muffler 
and  set  her  on  the  steps  above  him.  He  smiled  at  Janet. 

"This  is  my  restaurant/'  he  said. 

But  she  could  not  answer.  She  watched  him  as  he  con 
tinued  to  bend  over  the  children,  and  when  the  smaller  ones 
wept  because  they  had  to  wait,  he  whispered  in  their  ears, 
astonishing  one  or  two  into  laughter.  Some  ceased  crying 
and  clung  to  him  with  dumb  faith.  And  after  the  chosen 
hundred  had  been  admitted  he  turned  to  her  again. 

"You  allow  visitors?" 

"Oh  dear,  yes.  They'd  come  anyway.  There's  one  up 
there  now,  a  very  swell  lady  from  New  York  —  so  swell  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  to  her.  Talk  to  her  for  me." 

"But  I  shouldn't  know  what  to  say,  either,"  replied 
Janet.  She  smiled,  but  she  had  an  odd  desire  to  cry.  "  What 
is  she  doing  here?" 

"Oh,  thrashing  'round,  trying  to  connect  with  life  — 
she's  one  of  the  unfortunate  unemployed." 

"Unemployed?" 

"The  idle  rich,"  he  explained.  "Perhaps  you  can  give 
her  a  job  —  enlist  her  in  the  I.W.W." 

"We  don't  want  that  kind,"  Janet  declared. 

"Have  pity  on  her,"  he  begged.  "Nobody  wants  them 
—  that's  why  they're  so  pathetic." 

She  accompanied  him  up  the  narrow  stairway  to  a  great 
loft,  the  bareness  of  which  had  been  tempered  by  draped 
American  flags.  From  the  trusses  of  the  roof  hung  impro 
vised  electric  lights,  and  the  children  were  already  seated 
at  the  four  long  tables,  where  half  a  dozen  ladies  were  sup 
plying  them  with  enamelled  bowls  filled  with  steaming  soup. 
They  attacked  it  ravenously,  and  the  absence  of  the  talk 
and  laughter  that  ordinarily  accompany  children's  feasts 
touched  her,  impressed  upon  her,  as  nothing  else  had  done, 
the  destitution  of  the  homes  from  which  these  little  ones 

2A      * 


354  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

had  come.  The  supplies  that  came  to  Hampton,  the  money 
that  poured  into  Headquarters  were  not  enough  to  allay 
the  suffering  even  now.  And  what  if  the  strike  should  last 
for  months !  Would  they  be  able  to  hold  out,  to  win  ?  In 
this  mood  of  pity,  of  anxiety  mingled  with  appreciation  and 
gratitude  for  what  this  man  was  doing,  she  turned  to  speak 
to  him,  to  perceive  on  the  platform  at  the  end  of  the  room 
a  lady  seated.  So  complete  was  the  curve  of  her  back  that 
her  pose  resembled  a  letter  u  set  sidewise,  the  gap  from 
her  crossed  knee  to  her  face  being  closed  by  a  slender  fore 
arm  and  hand  that  held  a  lorgnette,  through  which  she  was 
gazing  at  the  children  with  an  apparently  absorbed  interest. 
This  impression  of  willowy  flexibility  was  somehow  height 
ened  by  large,  pear-shaped  pendants  hanging  from  her  ears, 
by  a  certain  filminess  in  her  black  costume  and  hat.  Flung 
across  the  table  beside  her  was  a  long  coat  of  grey  fur. 
She  struck  an  odd  note  here,  presented  a  strange  contrast 
to  Janet's  friend  from  Silliston,  with  his  rough  suit  and  fine 
but  rugged  features. 

"I'm  sorry  I  haven't  a  table  for  you  just  at  present," 
he  was  saying.  "  But  perhaps  you'll  let  me  take  your  order," 
—  and  he  imitated  the  obsequious  attitude  of  a  waiter.  "  A 
little  fresh  caviar  and  a  clear  soup,  and  then  a  fish  — •  ?  " 

The  lady  took  down  her  lorgnette  and  raised  an  appealing 
face. 

"You're  always  joking,  Brooks,"  she  chided  him,  "even 
when  you're  doing  things  like  this !  I  can't  get  you  to 
talk  seriously  even  when  I  come  all  the  way  from  New  York 
to  find  out  what's  going  on  here." 

"How  hungry  children  eat,  for  instance?"  he  queried. 

"Dear  little  things,  it's  heartrending!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Especially  when  I  think  of  my  own  children,  who  have  to 
be  made  to  eat.  Tell  me  the  nationality  of  that  adorable 
tot  at  the  end." 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  355 

"Perhaps  Miss  Bumpus  can  tell  you/'  he  ventured.  And 
Janet,  though  distinctly  uncomfortable  and  hostile  to  the 
lady,  was  surprised  and  pleased  that  he  should  have 
remembered  her  name.  "Brooks,"  she  had  called  him. 
That  was  his  first  name.  This  strange  and  sumptuous 
person  seemed  intimate  with  him.  Could  it  be  possible 
that  he  belonged  to  her  class?  "Mrs.  Brocklehurst,  Miss 
Bumpus." 

Mrs.  Brocklehurst  focussed  her  attention  on  Janet,  through 
the  lorgnette,  but  let  it  fall  immediately,  smiling  on  her 
brightly,  persuasively. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  she  said,  stretching  forth  a  slender  arm 
and  taking  the  girl's  somewhat  reluctant  hand.  "  Do  come 
and  sit  down  beside  me  and  tell  me  about  everything  here. 
I'm  sure  you  know  —  you  look  so  intelligent." 

Her  friend  from  Silliston  shot  at  Janet  an  amused  but 
fortifying  glance  and  left  them,  going  down  to  the  tables. 
Somehow  that  look  of  his  helped  to  restore  in  her  a  sense 
of  humour  and  proportion,  and  her  feeling  became  one  of 
curiosity  concerning  this  exquisitely  soigneed  being  of  an 
order  she  had  read  about,  but  never  encountered  —  an  order 
which  her  newly  acquired  views  declared  to  be  usurpers  and 
parasites.  But  despite  her  palpable  effort  to  be  gracious  — 
perhaps  because  of  it  —  Mrs.  Brocklehurst  had  an  air  about 
her  that  was  disconcerting !  Janet,  however,  seemed  com 
posed  as  she  sat  down. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  very  much.  Maybe  you  will 
tell  me  something,  first." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Brocklehurst,  sweetly  — 
when  she  had  got  her  breath. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  Janet  asked. 

"Whom  do  you  mean  —  Mr.  Insall?" 

"  Is  that  his  name  ?  I  didn't  know.  I've  seen  him  twice, 
but  he  neve?  told  me." 


356  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"  Why,  my  dear,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't  heard  of 
Brooks  Insall?" 

"Brooks  Insall."  Janet  repeated  the  name,  as  her  eyes 
sought  his  figure  between  the  tables.  "No." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  expected  you 
to  hear  of  him,"  declared  the  lady,  repentantly.  "He's  a 
writer  —  an  author."  And  at  this  Janet  gave  a  slight  ex 
clamation  of  pleasure  and  surprise.  "You  admire  writers? 
He's  done  some  delightful  things." 

"What  does  he  write  about?"  Janet  asked. 

"Oh,  wild  flowers  and  trees  and  mountains  and  streams, 
and  birds  and  humans  —  he  has  a  wonderful  insight  into 
people." 

Janet  was  silent.  She  was  experiencing  a  swift  twinge 
of  jealousy,  of  that  familiar  rebellion  against  her  limitations. 

"You  must  read  them,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Brocklehurst  con 
tinued  softly,  in  musical  tones.  "They  are  wonderful,  they 
have  such  distinction.  He's  walked,  I'm  told,  over  every 
foot  of  New  England,  talking  to  the  farmers  and  their  wives 
and  —  all  sorts  of  people."  She,  too,  paused  to  let  her 
gaze  linger  upon  Insall  laughing  and  chatting  with  the 
children  as  they  ate.  "He  has  such  a  splendid,  ' out-door' 
look  —  don't  you  think  ?  And  he's  clever  with  his  hands  — 
he  bought  an  old  abandoned  farmhouse  in  Silliston  and  made 
it  all  over  himself  until  it  looks  as  if  one  of  our  great-great 
grandfathers  had  just  stepped  out  of  it  to  shoot  an  Indian  — 
only  much  prettier.  And  his  garden  is  a  dream.  It's  the 
most  unique  place  I've  ever  known." 

Janet  blushed  deeply  as  she  recalled  how  she  had  mis 
taken  him  for  a  carpenter :  she  was  confused,  overwhelmed, 
she  had  a  sudden  longing  to  leave  the  place,  to  be  alone,  to 
think  about  this  discovery.  Yet  she  wished  to  know  more. 

"  But  how  did  he  happen  to  come  here  to  Hampton  —  to 
be  doing  this  ?  "  she  asked. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  357 

"Well,  that's  just  what  makes  him  interesting,  one  never 
can  tell  what  he'll  do.  He  took  it  into  his  head  to  collect 
the  money  to  feed  these  children ;  I  suppose  he  gave  much  of 
it  himself.  He  has  an  income  of  his  own,  though  he  likes 
to  live  so  simply." 

"This  place — it's  not  connected  with  any  organization?" 
Janet  ejaculated. 

"That's  the  trouble,  he  doesn't  like  organizations,  and 
he  doesn't  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  the  questions  or 
movements  of  the  day,"  Mrs.  Brocklehurst  complained.  "  Or 
at  least  he  refuses  to  talk  about  them,  though  I've  known 
him  for  many  years,  and  his  people  and  mine  were  friends. 
Now  there  are  lots  of  things  I  want  to  learn,  that  I  came 
up  from  New  York  to  find  out.  I  thought  of  course  he'd 
introduce  me  to  the  strike  leaders,  and  he  tells  me  he  doesn't 
know  one  of  them.  Perhaps  you  know  them,"  she  added, 
with  sudden  inspiration. 

"I'm  only  an  employee  at  Strike  Headquarters,"  Janet 
replied,  stiffening  a  little  despite  the  lady's  importuning 
look  —  which  evidently  was  usually  effective. 

"You  mean  the  I.W.W.?" 

"Yes." 

Meanwhile  Insall  had  come  up  and  seated  himself  below 
them  on  the  edge  of  the  platform. 

"Oh,  Brooks,  your  friend  Miss  Bumpus  is  employed  in  the 
Strike  Headquarters  !"  Mrs.  Brocklehurst  cried,  and  turning 
to  Janet  she  went  on.  "  I  didn't  realize  you  wTere  a  factory 
girl,  I  must  say  you  don't  look  it." 

Once  more  a  gleam  of  amusement  from  Insall  saved  Janet, 
had  the  effect  of  compelling  her  to  meet  the  affair  somewhat 
after  his  own  manner.  He  seemed  to  be  putting  the  words 
into  her  mouth,  and  she  even  smiled  a  little,  as  she  spoke. 

"You  never  can  tell  what  factory  girls  do  look  like  in 
these  days,"  she  observed  mischievously. 


358  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"That's  so,"  Mrs.  Brocklehurst  agreed,  "we  are  living 
in  such  extraordinary  times,  everything  topsy  turvy.  I 
ought  to  have  realized  —  it  was  stupid  of  me  —  I  know 
several  factory  girls  in  New  York,  I've  been  to  their  meetings, 
I've  had  them  at  my  house  —  shirtwaist  strikers." 

She  assumed  again  the  willowy,  u  position,  her  fingers 
clasped  across  her  knee,  her  eyes  supplicatingly  raised  to 
Janet.  Then  she  reached  out  her  hand  and  touched  the 
I.W.W.  button.  "Do  tell  me  all  about  the  Industrial 
Workers,  and  what  they  believe,"  she  pleaded. 

"W7ell,"  said  Janet,  after  a  slight  pause,  "I'm  afraid  you 
won't  like  it  much.  Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Because  I'm  so  interested  —  especially  in  the  women 
of  the  movement.  I  feel  for  them  so,  I  want  to  help  —  to 
do  something,  too.  Of  course  you're  a  suffragist." 

"You  mean,  do  I  believe  in  votes  for  women?  Yes,  I 
suppose  I  do." 

"But  you  must"  declared  Mrs.  Brocklehurst,  still  sweetly, 
but  with  emphasis.  "You  wouldn't  be  working,  you 
wouldn't  be  striking  unless  you  did." 

"I've  never  thought  about  it,"  said  Janet. 

"But  how  are  you  working  girls  ever  going  to  raise  wages 
unless  you  get  the  vote?  It's  the  only  way  men  ever  get 
anywhere  —  the  politicians  listen  to  them."  She  produced 
from  her  bag  a  gold  pencil  and  a  tablet.  "Mrs.  Ned  Carfax 
is  here  from  Boston  —  I  saw  her  for  a  moment  at  the  hotel  — 
she's  been  here  investigating  for  nearly  three  days,  she 
tells  me.  I'll  have  her  send  you  suffrage  literature  at  once, 
if  you'll  give  me  your  address." 

"You  want  a  vote?"  asked  Janet,  curiously,  gazing  at  the 
pearl  earrings. 

"Certainly  I  want  one." 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  repeated  Mrs.  Brocklehurst. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  359 

"Yes.     You  must  have  everything  you  want." 

Even  then  the  lady's  sweet  reasonableness  did  not  desert 
her.  She  smiled  winningly,  displaying  two  small  and  even 
rows  of  teeth. 

"On  principle,  my  dear.  For  one  reason,  because  I  have 
such  sympathy  with  women  who  toil,  and  for  another,  I  be 
lieve  the  time  has  come  when  women  must  no  longer  be  slaves, 
they  must  assert  themselves,  become  individuals,  independ 
ent." 

"But  you?"  exclaimed  Janet. 

Mrs.  Brocklehurst  continued  to  smile  encouragingly,  and 
murmured  "Yes?" 

"You  are  not  a  slave." 

A  delicate  pink,  like  the  inside  of  a  conch  shell,  spread 
over  Mrs.  Brocklehurst's  cheeks. 

"We're  all  slaves,"  she  declared  with  a  touch  of  passion. 
"  It's  hard  for  you  to  realize,  I  know,  about  those  of  us  who 
seem  more  fortunate  than  our  sisters.  But  it's  true.  The 
men  give  us  jewels  and  automobiles  and  clothes,  but  they 
refuse  to  give  us  what  every  real  woman  craves  —  liberty." 

Janet  had  become  genuinely  interested. 

"But  what  kind  of  liberty?" 

"  Liberty  to  have  a  voice,  to  take  part  in  the  government 
of  our  country,  to  help  make  the  laws,  especially  those  con 
cerning  working  women  and  children,  what  they  ought  to  be." 

Here  was  altruism,  truly !  Here  were  words  that  should 
have  inspired  Janet,  yet  she  was  silent.  Mrs.  Brocklehurst 
gazed  at  her  solicitously. 

"What  are  you  thinking  ? "  she  urged  —  and  it  was  Janet's 
turn  to  flush. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that  you  seemed  to  have  everything 
life  has  to  give,  and  yet  —  and  yet  you're  not  happy." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  unhappy,"  protested  the  lady.  "WTiy  do 
you  say  that?" 


JL  UU11    L  JV11UVT.  -LUU,    tUU,   OCC111    tU   UC   WetlllUlg  SUillCLillllg. 

"I  want  to  be  of  use,  to  count,"  said  Mrs.  Brocklehurst, 
—  and  Janet  was  startled  to  hear  from  this  woman's  lips  the 
very  echo  of  her  own  desires. 

Mrs.  Brocklehurst's  feelings  had  become  slightly  com 
plicated.  It  is  perhaps  too  much  to  say  that  her  com 
placency  was  shaken.  She  was,  withal,  a  person  of  resolu 
tion  —  of  resolution  taking  the  form  of  unswerving  faith 
in  herself,  a  faith  persisting  even  when  she  was  being  carried 
beyond  her  depth.  She  had  the  kind  of  pertinacity  that 
never  admits  being  out  of  depth,  the  happy  buoyancy 
that  does  not  require  to  feel  the  bottom  under  one's  feet. 
She  floated  in  swift  currents.  When  life  became  uncom 
fortable,  she  evaded  it  easily ;  and  she  evaded  it  now,  as  she 
gazed  at  the  calm  but  intent  face  of  the  girl  in  front  of  her, 
by  a  characteristic  inner  refusal  to  admit  that  she  had 
accidentally  come  in  contact  with  something  baffling.  There 
fore  she  broke  the  silence. 

"  Isn't  that  what  you  want  —  you  who  are  striking  ? " 
she  asked. 

"I  think  we  want  the  things  that  you've  got,"  said  Janet. 
A  phrase  one  of  the  orators  had  used  came  into  her  mind, 
"Enough  money  to  live  up  to  American  standards" — but 
she  did  not  repeat  it.  "Enough  money  to  be  free,  to  enjoy 
life,  to  have  some  leisure  and  amusement  and  luxury." 
The  last  three  she  took  from  the  orator's  mouth. 

"But  surely,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brocklehurst,  "surely  you 
want  more  than  that!" 

Janet  shook  her  head. 

"You  asked  me  what  we  believed,  the  I.W.W.,  the  syn 
dicalists,  and  I  told  you  you  wouldn't  like  it.  Well,  we 
believe  in  doing  away  with  you,  the  rich,  and  taking  all 
you  have  for  ourselves,  the  workers,  the  producers.  We 
believe  you  haven't  any  right  to  what  you've  got,  that 


you've  fooled  and  cheated  us  out  of  it.  That's  why  we 
women  don't  care  much  about  the  vote,  I  suppose,  though 
I  never  thought  of  it.  We  mean  to  go  on  striking  until 
we've  got  all  that  you've  got." 

"But  what  will  become  of  us?"  said  Mrs.  Brocklehurst. 
"You  wouldn't  do  away  with  all  of  us !  I  admit  there  are 
many  who  don't  —  but  some  do  sympathize  with  you,  will 
help  you  get  what  you  want,  help  you,  perhaps,  to  see  things 
more  clearly,  to  go  about  it  less  —  ruthlessly." 

"I've  told  you  what  we  believe,"  repeated  Janet. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  came,"  cried  Mrs.  Brocklehurst.  "It's 
most  interesting !  I  never  knew  what  the  syndicalists  be 
lieved.  Why,  it's  like  the  French  Revolution  —  only  worse. 
How  are  you  going  to  get  rid  of  us?  cut  our  heads  off?" 

Janet  could  not  refrain  from  smiling. 

"Let  you  starve,  I  suppose." 

"Really!"  said  Mrs.  Brocklehurst,  and  appeared  to  be 
trying  to  visualize  the  process.  She  was  a  true  Athenian, 
she  had  discovered  some  new  thing,  she  valued  discoveries 
more  than  all  else  in  life,  she  collected  them,  though  she 
never  used  them  save  to  discuss  them  with  intellectuals  at 
her  dinner  parties.  "Now  you  must  let  me  come  to  Head 
quarters  and  get  a  glimpse  of  some  of  the  leaders  —  of 
Antonelli,  and  I'm  told  there's  a  fascinating  man  named 
Rowe." 

"Rolfe,"  Janet  corrected. 

"Rolfe  —  that's  it."  She  glanced  down  at  the  diminu 
tive  watch,  set  with  diamonds,  on  her  wrist,  rose  and  ad 
dressed  Insall.  "Oh  dear,  I  must  be  going,  I'm  to  lunch 
with  Nina  Carfax  at  one,  and  she's  promised  to  tell  me  a 
lot  of  things.  She's  writing  an  article  for  Craven's  Weekly 
all  about  the  strike  and  the  suffering  and  injustice  —  she 
says  it's  been  horribly  misrepresented  to  the  public,  the 
mill  owners  have  had  it  all  their  own  way.  I  think 


362  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

what  you're  doing  is  splendid,  Brooks,  only  — "  here  she 
gave  him  an  appealing,  rather  commiserating  look  —  "  only 
I  do  wish  you  would  take  more  interest  in  —  in  underlying 
principles." 

Insall  smiled. 

"It's  a  question  of  brains.  You  have  to  have  brains 
to  be  a  sociologist/'  he  answered,  as  he  held  up  for  her  the 
fur  coat.  With  a  gesture  of  gentle  reproof  she  slipped  into  it, 
and  turned  to  Janet. 

"You  must  let  me  see  more  of  you,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"I'm  at  the  best  hotel,  I  can't  remember  the  name,  they're 
all  so  horrible  —  but  I'll  be  here  until  to-morrow  afternoon. 
I  want  to  find  out  everything.  Come  and  call  on  me. 
You're  quite  the  most  interesting  person  I've  met  for  a 
long  time  —  I  don't  think  you  realize  how  interesting  you 
are.  Au  revoir!"  She  did  not  seem  to  expect  any  reply, 
taking  acquiescence  for  granted.  Glancing  once  more  at 
the  rows  of  children,  who  had  devoured  their  meal  in  an 
almost  uncanny  silence,  she  exclaimed,  "The  dears!  I'm 
going  to  send  you  a  cheque,  Brooks,  even  if  you  have  been 
horrid  to  me  —  you  always  are." 

"Horrid!"  repeated  Insall,  "put  it  down  to  ignorance." 

He  accompanied  her  down  the  stairs.  From  her  willowy 
walk  a  sophisticated  observer  would  have  hazarded  the 
guess  that  her  search  for  an  occupation  had  included  a 
course  of  lessons  in  fancy  dancing. 


Somewhat  dazed  by  this  interview  which  had  been  so 
suddenly  forced  upon  her,  Janet  remained  seated  on  the 
platform.  She  had  the  perception  to  recognize  that  in  Mrs. 
Brocklehurst  and  Insall  she  had  come  in  contact  with  a 
social  stratum  hitherto  beyond  the  bounds  of  her  expe- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  363 

rience ;  those  who  belonged  to  that  stratum  were  not  char 
acterized  by  the  possession  of  independent  incomes  alone, 
but  by  an  attitude  toward  life,  a  manner  of  not  appearing 
to  take  its  issues  desperately.  Ditmar  was  not  like  that. 
She  felt  convicted  of  enthusiasms,  she  was  puzzled,  rather 
annoyed  and  ashamed.  Insall  and  Mrs.  Brocklehurst, 
different  though  they  were,  had  this  attitude  in  common.  .  .  . 
Insall,  when  he  returned,  regarded  her  amusedly. 

"So  you'd  like  to  exterminate  Mrs.  Brocklehurst?"  he 
asked. 

And  Janet  flushed.     "Well,  she  forced  me  to  say  it." 

"Oh,  it  didn't  hurt  her,"  he  said. 

"And  it  didn't  help  her,"  Janet  responded  quickly. 

"No,  it  didn't  help  her,"  Insall  agreed,  and  laughed. 

"But  I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  true,"  she  went  on,  "that  we 
want  what  she's  got."  The  remark,  on  her  own  lips,  sur 
prised  Janet  a  little.  She  had  not  really  meant  to  make 
it.  Insall  seemed  to  have  the  quality  of  forcing  one  to 
think  out  loud. 

"And  what  she  wants,  you've  got,"  he  told  her. 

"What  have  I  got?" 

"Perhaps  you'll  find  out,  some  day." 

"It  may  be  too  late,"  she  exclaimed.  "If  you'd  only 
tell  me,  it  might  help." 

"I  think  it's  something  you'll  have  to  discover  for  your 
self,"  he  replied,  more  gravely  than  was  his  wont. 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  she  demanded  :  "  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  who  you  were  ?  You  let  me  think,  when 
I  met  you  in  Silliston  that  day,  that  you  were  a  carpenter. 
I  didn't  know  you'd  written  books." 

"You  can't  expect  writers  to  wear  uniforms,  like  police 
men  —  though  perhaps  we  ought  to,  it  might  be  a  little 
fairer  to  the  public,"  he  said.  "Besides,  I  am  a  carpenter, 
a  better  carpenter  than  a  writer." 


364  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I'd  give  anything  to  be  an  author  I"  she  cried. 

"It's  a  hard  life,"  he  assured  her.  "We  have  to  go  about 
seeking  inspiration  from  others." 

"Is  that  why  you  came  to  Hampton?" 

"Well,  not  exactly.  It's  a  queer  thing  about  inspiration, 
you  only  find  it  when  you're  not  looking  for  it." 

She  missed  the  point  of  this  remark,  though  his  eyes  were 
on  her.  They  were  not  like  Rolfe's  eyes,  insinuating,  pos 
sessive;  they  had  the  anomalistic  quality  of  being  at  once 
personel  and  impersonal,  friendly,  alight,  evoking  curiosity 
yet  compelling  trust. 

"And  you  didn't  tell  me,"  he  reproached  her,  "that  you 
were  at  I.W.W.  Headquarters." 

A  desire  for  self- justification  impelled  her  to  exclaim : 
"You  don't  believe  in  Syndicalism  —  and  yet  you've  come 
here  to  feed  these  children !" 

"Oh,  I  think  I  understand  the  strike,"  he  said. 

"How?  Have  you  seen  it?  Have  you  heard  the  argu 
ments?" 

"No.     I've  seen  you.     You've  explained  it." 

"To  Mrs.  Brocklehurst?" 

"It  wasn't  necessary,"  he  replied  —  and  immediately 
added,  in  semi-serious  apology  :  "  I  thought  it  was  admirable, 
what  you  said.  If  she'd  talked  to  a  dozen  syndicalist 
leaders,  she  couldn't  have  had  it  put  more  clearly.  Only  — 
I'm  afraid  she  doesn't  know  the  truth  when  she  hears  it." 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me !" 

"Indeed  I'm  not,"  he  protested. 

"But  I  didn't  give  any  of  the  arguments,  any  of  the 
—  philosophy,"  she  pronounced  the  word  hesitatingly.  "I 
don't  understand  it  yet  as  well  as  I  should." 

"You  are  it,"  he  said.  "It's  not  always  easy  to  under 
stand  what  we  are  —  it's  generally  after  we've  become  some 
thing  else  that  we  comprehend  what  we  have  been." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  365 

And  while  she  was  pondering  over  this  one  of  the  ladies 
who  had  been  waiting  on  the  table  came  toward  Insall. 

"The  children  have  finished,  Brooks/'  she  informed  him. 
"It's  tune  to  let  in  the  others." 

Insall  turned  to  Janet.  "This  is  Miss  Bumpus  —  and 
this  is  Mrs.  Maturin,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Maturin  lives  in 
Silliston." 

The  greeting  of  this  lady  differed  from  that  of  Mrs.  Brock- 
lehurst.  She,  too,  took  Janet's  hand. 

"Have  you  come  to  help  us?"  she  asked. 

And  Janet  said:  "Oh,  I'd  like  to,  but  I  have  other 
work." 

"Come  in  and  see  us  again,"  said  Insall,  and  Janet,  prom 
ising,  took  her  leave.  .  .  . 

"Who  is  she,  Brooks?"  Mrs.  Maturin  asked,  when  Janet 
had  gone. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  know.  What  does  it 
matter?" 

Mrs.  Maturin  smiled. 

"I  should  say  that  it  did  matter,"  she  replied.  "But 
there's  something  unusual  about  her — where  did  you  find 
her?" 

"She  found  me."  And  Insall  explained.  "She  was  a 
stenographer,  it  seems,  but  now  she's  enlisted  heart  and 
soul  with  the  syndicalists,"  he  added. 

"A  history?'"  Mrs.  Maturin  queried.  "Well,  I  needn't 
ask  —  it's  written  on  her  face." 

"That's  all  I  know,"  said  Insall. 

"I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin.  "You  say  she's 
in  the  strike?" 

"I  should  rather  put  it  that  the  strike  is  in  her." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Brooks?" 

But  Insall  did  not  reply. 


366  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 


Janet  came  away  from  Dey  Street  in  a  state  of  mental 
and  emotional  confusion.  The  encounter  with  Mrs.  Brockle- 
hurst  had  been  upsetting;  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling  of 
having  made  a  fool  of  herself  in  Insall's  eyes;  she  desired 
his  approval;  even  on  that  occasion  when  she  had  first 
met  him  and  mistaken  him  for  a  workman  she  had  been 
conscious  of  a  compelling  faculty  in  him,  of  a  pressure  he 
exerted  demanding  justification  of  herself;  and  to-day, 
because  she  was  now  pledged  to  Syndicalism,  because  she 
had  made  the  startling  discovery  that  he  was  a  writer  of 
some  renown,  she  had  been  more  than  ever  anxious  to 
vindicate  her  cause.  She  found  herself,  indeed,  wondering 
uneasily  whether  there  were  a  higher  truth  of  which  he  was 
in  possession.  And  the  fact  that  his  attitude  toward  her 
had  been  one  of  sympathy  and  friendliness  rather  than  of 
disapproval,  that  his  insight  seemed  to  have  fathomed  her 
case,  apprehended  it  in  all  but  the  details,  was  even  more 
disturbing  —  yet  vaguely  consoling.  The  consolatory  ele 
ment  in  the  situation  was  somehow  connected  with  the  lady, 
his  friend  from  Silliston,  to  whom  he  had  introduced  her 
and  whose  image  now  came  before  her  —  the  more  vividly, 
perhaps,  in  contrast  with  that  of  Mrs.  Brocklehurst.  Mrs. 
Maturin  —  could  Janet  have  so  expressed  her  thought !  — 
had  appeared  as  an  extension  of  Insall's  own  personality. 
She  was  a  strong,  tall,  vital  woman  with  a  sweet  irregu 
larity  of  feature,  with  a  heavy  crown  of  chestnut  hair  turn 
ing  slightly  grey,  quaintly  braided,  becomingly  framing 
her  face.  Her  colour  was  high.  The  impression  she  con 
veyed  of  having  suffered  was  emphasized  by  the  simple 
mourning  gown  she  wore,  but  the  dominant  note  she  had 
struck  was  one  of  dependability.  It  was,  after  all,  Insall's 
dominant,  too.  Insall  had  asked  her  to  call  again ;  and  the 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  367 

reflection  that  she  might  do  so  was  curiously  comforting. 
The  soup  kitchen  in  the  loft,  with  these  two  presiding  over 
it,  took  on  something  of  the  aspect  of  a  sanctuary.  .  .  . 


Insall,  in  some  odd  manner,  and  through  the  medium  of 
that  frivolous  lady,  had  managed  to  reenforce  certain  doubts 
that  had  been  stirring  in  Janet  —  doubts  of  Rolfe,  of  the 
verity  of  the  doctrine  which  with  such  abandon  she  had  em 
braced.  It  was  Insall  who,  though  remaining  silent,  just 
by  being  there  seemed  to  have  suggested  her  manner  of 
dealing  with  Mrs.  Brocklehurst.  It  had,  indeed,  been  his 
manner  of  dealing  with  Mrs.  Brocklehurst.  Janet  had  some 
how  been  using  his  words,  his  method,  and  thus  for  the 
first  time  had  been  compelled  to  look  objectively  on  what 
she  had  deemed  a  part  of  herself.  We  never  know  what  we 
are,  he  had  said,  until  we  become  something  else  !  He  had 
forced  her  to  use  an  argument  that  failed  to  harmonize, 
somehow,  with  RohVs  poetical  apologetics.  Stripped  of 
the  glamour  of  these,  was  not  Rolfe's  doctrine  just  one  of 
taking,  taking?  And  when  the  workers  were  in  possession 
of  all,  would  not  they  be  as  badly  off  as  Mrs.  Brocklehurst 
or  Ditmar?  Rolfe,  despite  the  inspiring  intellectual  creed 
he  professed,  lacked  the  poise  and  unity  that  go  with  happi 
ness.  He  wanted  things,  for  himself:  whereas  she  beheld 
in  Insall  one  who  seemed  emancipated  from  possessions, 
whose  life  was  so  organized  as  to  make  them  secondary 
affairs.  And  she  began  to  wonder  what  Insall  would  think 
of  Ditmar. 

These  sudden  flashes  of  tenderness  for  Ditmar  startled 
and  angered  her.  She  had  experienced  them  before,  and 
always  had  failed  to  account  for  their  intrusion  into  a  hatred 
she  cherished.  Often,  at  her  desk  in  the  bibliotheque, 


368  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

she  had  surprised  herself  speculating  upon  what  Ditmar 
might  be  doing  at  that  moment;  and  it  seemed  curious, 
living  in  the  same  city  with  him,  that  she  had  not  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  during  the  strike.  More  than  once,  moved 
by  a  perverse  impulse,  she  had  ventured  of  an  evening  down 
West  Street  toward  the  guard  of  soldiers  in  the  hope  of 
catching  sight  of  him.  He  had  possessed  her,  and  the 
memory  of  the  wild  joy  of  that  possession,  of  that  surrender 
to  great  strength,  refused  to  perish.  Why,  at  such  moments, 
should  she  glory  in  a  strength  that  had  destroyed  her? 
and  why,  when  she  heard  him  cursed  as  the  man  who  stood, 
more  than  any  other,  in  the  way  of  the  strikers'  victory, 
should  she  paradoxically  and  fiercely  rejoice?  why  should 
she  feel  pride  when  she  was  told  of  the  fearlessness  with 
which  he  went  about  the  streets,  and  her  heart  stop  beating 
when  she  thought  of  the  possibility  of  his  being  shot  ?  For 
these  unwelcome  phenomena  within  herself  Janet  could 
not  account.  When  they  disturbed  and  frightened  her, 
she  plunged  into  her  work  with  the  greater  zeal.  .  .  . 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  the  strain  of  the  strike  began 
to  tell  on  the  weak,  the  unprepared,  on  those  who  had  many 
mouths  to  feed.  Shivering  with  the  cold  of  that  hardest 
of  winters,  these  unfortunates  flocked  to  the  Franco-Belgian 
Hall,  where  a  little  food  or  money  in  proportion  to  the  size 
of  their  families  was  doled  out  to  them.  In  spite  of  the 
contributions  received  by  mail,  of  the  soup  kitchens  and 
relief  stations  set  up  by  various  organizations  in  various 
parts  of  the  city,  the  supply  little  more  than  sufficed  to  keep 
alive  the  more  needy  portion  of  the  five  and  twenty  thou 
sand  who  now  lacked  all  other  means  of  support.  Janet's 
heart  was  wrung  as  she  gazed  at  the  gaunt,  bewildered 
faces  growing  daily  more  tragic,  more  bewildered  and  gaunt ; 
she  marvelled  at  the  animal-like  patience  of  these  Euro 
peans,  at  the  dumb  submission  of  most  of  them  to  priva- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  369 

tions  that  struck  her  as  appalling.  Some  indeed  complained, 
but  the  majority  recited  in  monotonous,  unimpassioned 
tones  their  stories  of  suffering,  or  of  ill  treatment  by  the 
"Cossacks"  or  the  police.  The  stipends  were  doled  out 
by  Czernowitz,  but  all  through  the  week  there  were  special 
appeals.  Once  it  was  a  Polish  woman,  wan  and  white, 
who  carried  her  baby  wrapped  in  a  frayed  shawl. 

"Wahna  littel  money  for  milk,"  she  said,  when  at  length 
their  attention  was  drawn  to  her. 

"But  you  get  your  money,  every  Saturday,"  the  secretary 
informed  her  kindly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Baby  die,  'less  I  have  littel  milk  —  I  show  you." 

Janet  drew  back  before  the  sight  of  the  child  with  its 
sunken  cheeks  and  ghastly  blue  lips.  .  .  .  And  she  herself 
went  out  with  the  woman  to  buy  the  milk,  and  afterwards 
to  the  dive  in  Kendall  Street  which  she  called  home  —  in 
one  of  those  "rear"  tenements  separated  from  the  front 
buildings  by  a  narrow  court  reeking  with  refuse.  The  place 
was  dank  and  cold,  malodorous.  The  man  of  the  family, 
the  lodgers  who  lived  in  the  other  room  of  the  kennel,  were 
out  on  the  streets.  But  when  her  eyes  grew  used  to  the 
darkness  she  perceived  three  silent  children  huddled  hi 
the  bed  in  the  corner.  .  .  . 

On  another  occasion  a  man  came  running  up  the  stairs 
of  the  Hall  and  thrust  his  way  into  a  meeting  of  the  Com 
mittee  —  one  of  those  normally  happy,  irresponsible  Syrians 
who,  because  of  a  love  for  holidays,  are  the  despair  of  mill 
overseers.  Now  he  was  dazed,  breathless,  his  great  eyes 
grief-stricken  like  a  wounded  animal's. 

"She  is  killidd,  my  wife  —  de  polees,  dey  killidd  her !" 

It  was  Anna  Mower  who  investigated  the  case.  "The 
girl  wasn't  doing  nothing  but  walk  along  Hudson  Street 
when  one  of  those  hirelings  set  on  her  and  beat  her.  She 
2B 


370  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

put  out  her  hand  because  she  thought  he'd  hit  her  —  and 
he  gave  her  three  or  four  with  his  billy  and  left  her  in  the 
gutter.  If  you'd  see  her  you'd  know  she  wouldn't  hurt  a 
fly,  she's  that  gentle  looking,  like  all  the  Syrian  women. 
She  had  a  '  Don't  be  a  scab '  ribbon  on  —  that's  all  she  done  ! 
Somebody'll  shoot  that  guy,  and  I  wouldn't  blame  'em." 
Anna  stood  beside  Janet's  typewriter,  her  face  red  with 
anger  as  she  told  the  story. 

"And  how  is  the  woman  now?"  asked  Janet. 

"In  bed,  with  two  ribs  broken  and  a  bruise  on  her  back 
and  a  cut  on  her  head.  I  got  a  doctor.  He  could  hardly 
see  her  in  that  black  place  they  live."  .  .  . 

Such  were  the  incidents  that  fanned  the  hatred  into 
hotter  and  hotter  flame.  Daily  reports  were  brought  in  of 
arrests,  of  fines  and  imprisonments  for  picketing,  or  some 
times  merely  for  booing  at  the  remnant  of  those  who  still 
clung  to  their  employment.  One  magistrate  in  particular, 
a  Judge  Hennessy,  was  hated  above  all  others  for  giving 
the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law,  and  even  stretching  it. 
"Minions,  slaves  of  the  capitalists,  of  the  masters,"  the 
courts  were  called,  and  Janet  subscribed  to  these  epithets, 
beheld  the  judges  as  willing  agents  of  a  tyranny  from  which 
she,  too,  had  suffered.  There  arrived  at  Headquarters 
frenzied  bearers  of  rumours  such  as  that  of  the  reported 
intention  of  landlords  to  remove  the  windows  from  the 
tenements  if  the  rents  were  not  paid.  Antonelli  himself 
calmed  these.  "Let  the  landlords  try  it!"  he  said 
phlegmatically.  .  .  . 

After  a  while,  as  the  deadlock  showed  no  signs  of  break 
ing,  the  siege  of  privation  began  to  tell,  ominous  signs  of 
discontent  became  apparent.  Chief  among  the  waverers 
were  those  who  had  come  to  America  with  visions  of  a 
fortune,  who  had  practised  a  repulsive  thrift  in  order  to 
acquire  real  estate,  who  carried  in  their  pockets  dog-eared 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  371 

bank  books  recording  payments  already  made.  These 
had  consented  to  the  strike  reluctantly,  through  fear,  or 
had  been  carried  away  by  the  eloquence  and  enthusiasm  of 
the  leaders,  by  the  expectation  that  the  mill  owners  would 
yield  at  once.  Some  went  back  to  work,  only  to  be  "seen" 
by  the  militant,  watchful  pickets  —  generally  in  their  rooms, 
at  night.  One  evening,  as  Janet  was  walking  home,  she 
chanced  to  overhear  a  conversation  taking  place  in  the  dark 
vestibule  of  a  tenement. 

"Working  to-day?" 

"Yah." 

"Work  to-morrow?" 

Hesitation.     "I  d'no." 

"You  work,  I  cut  your  throat."     A  significant  noise. 

"Naw,  I  no  work." 

"Shake!" 

She  hurried  on  trembling,  not  with  fear,  but  exultingly. 
Nor  did  she  reflect  that  only  a  month  ago  such  an  occurrence 
would  have  shocked  and  terrified  her.  This  was  war.  .  .  . 
On  her  way  to  Fillmore  Street  she  passed,  at  every  street 
corner  in  this  district,  a  pacing  sentry,  muffled  in  great 
coat  and  woollen  cap,  alert  and  watchful,  the  ugly  knife  on 
the  end  of  his  gun  gleaming  in  the  blue  light  of  the  arc. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her,  despite  the  uniform,  that  the  souls 
of  many  of  these  men  were  divided  also,  that  their  voices 
and  actions,  when  she  saw  them  threatening  with  their  bay 
onets,  were  often  inspired  by  that  inner  desperation  char 
acteristic  of  men  who  find  themselves  unexpectedly  in  false 
situations.  Once  she  heard  a  woman  shriek  as  the  sharp 
knife  grazed  her  skirt :  at  another  time  a  man  whose  steps 
had  been  considerably  hurried  turned,  at  a  safe  distance, 
and  shouted  defiantly:  — 

"Say,  who  are  you  working  for?  Me  or  the  Wool 
Trust?" 


372  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Aw,  get  along/'  retorted  the  soldier,  "or  I'll  give  you 
yours." 

The  man  caught  sight  of  Janet's  button  as  she  overtook 
him.  He  was  walking  backward. 

"  That  feller  has  a  job  in  a  machine  shop  over  in  Barring- 
ton,  I  seen  him  there  when  I  was  in  the  mills.  And  here  he 
is  try  in'  to  put  us  out  —  ain't  that  the  limit?" 

The  thud  of  horses'  feet  in  the  snow  prevented  her  reply. 
The  silhouettes  of  the  approaching  squad  of  cavalry  were 
seen  down  the  street,  and  the  man  fled  precipitately  into 
an  alleyway.  .  .  . 

There  were  ludicrous  incidents,  too,  though  never  lacking 
in  a  certain  pathos.  The  wife  of  a  Russian  striker  had  her 
husband  arrested  because  he  had  burned  her  clothes  in  order 
to  prevent  her  returning  to  the  mill.  From  the  police 
station  he  sent  a  compatriot  with  a  message  to  Headquarters. 
"  Oye,  he  fix  her !  She  no  get  her  jawb  now  —  she  gotta 
stay  in  bed !"  this  one  cried  triumphantly. 

"She  was  like  to  tear  me  in  pieces  when  I  brought  her 
the  clothes,"  said  Anna  Mower,  who  related  her  experience 
with  mingled  feelings.  "I  couldn't  blame  her.  You  see, 
it  was  the  kids  crying  with  cold  and  starvation,  and  she  got 
so  she  just  couldn't  stand  it.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  neither." 

Day  by  day  the  element  who  wished  to  compromise  and 
end  the  strike  grew  stronger,  brought  more  and  more  pres 
sure  on  the  leaders.  These  people  were  subsidized,  Antonelli 
declared,  by  the  capitalists.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


A  MORE  serious  atmosphere  pervaded  Headquarters,  where 
it  was  realized  that  the  issue  hung  in  the  balance.  And 
more  proclamations,  a  la  Napoleon,  were  issued  to  sustain 
and  hearten  those  who  were  finding  bread  and  onions  meagre 
fare,  to  shame  the  hesitating,  the  wavering.  As  has  been 
said,  it  was  Rolfe  who,  because  of  his  popular  literary  gift, 
composed  these  appeals  for  the  consideration  of  the  Com 
mittee,  dictating  them  to  Janet  as  he  paced  up  and  down 
the  bibliotheque,  inhaling  innumerable  cigarettes  and  fling 
ing  down  the  ends  on  the  floor.  A  famous  one  was  headed  : 
"Shall  Wool  and  Cotton  Kings  Rule  the  Nation?  "  "We  are 
winning!"  it  declared.  "The  World  is  with  us  I  Forced 
by  the  unshaken  solidarity  of  tens  of  thousands,  the  manu 
facturers  offer  bribes  to  end  the  reign  of  terror  they  have 
inaugurated.  .  .  .  Inhuman  treatment  and  oppressive  toil 
have  brought  all  nationalities  together  into  one  great  army 
to  fight  against  a  brutal  system  of  exploitation.  In  years 
and  years  of  excessive  labour  we  have  produced  millions 
for  a  class  of  idle  parasites,  who  enjoy  all  the  luxuries  of  life 
while  our  wives  have  to  leave  their  firesides  and  our  children 
their  schools  to  eke  out  a  miserable  existence."  And  this 
for  the  militia:  "The  lowest  aim  of  life  is  to  be  a  soldier! 
The  'good'  soldier  never  tries  to  distinguish  right  from 
wrong,  he  never  thinks,  he  never  reasons,  he  only  obeys  — " 

"But,"  Janet  was  tempted  to  say,  "your  syndicalism 
declares  that  none  of  us  should  think  or  reason.  We  should 

373 


374  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

only  feel."  She  was  beginning  to  detect  Rolfe's  inconsis 
tencies,  yet  she  refrained  from  interrupting  the  inspirational 
flow. 

"The  soldier  is  a  blind,  heartless,  soulless,  murderous 
machine."  Rolfe  was  fond  of  adjectives.  "All  that  is 
human  in  him,  all  that  is  divine  has  been  sworn  away  when 
he  took  the  enlistment  oath.  No  man  can  fall  lower  than  a 
soldier.  It  is  a  depth  beyond  which  we  cannot  go." 

"All  that  is  human,  all  that  is  divine,"  wrote  Janet, 
and  thrilled  a  little  at  the  words.  Why  was  it  that  mere 
words,  and  their  arrangement  in  certain  sequences,  gave  one 
a  delicious,  creepy  feeling  up  and  down  the  spine?  Her 
attitude  toward  him  had  become  more  and  more  critical, 
she  had  avoided  him  when  she  could,  but  when  he  was  in 
this  ecstatic  mood  she  responded,  forgot  his  red  lips,  his 
contradictions,  lost  herself  in  a  medium  she  did  not  com 
prehend.  Perhaps  it  was  because,  in  his  absorption  in  the 
task,  he  forgot  her,  forgot  himself.  She,  too,  despised  the 
soldiers,  fervently  believed  they  had  sold  themselves  to  the 
oppressors  of  mankind.  And  Rolfe,  when  in  the  throes  of 
creation,  had  the  manner  of  speaking  to  the  soldiers  them 
selves,  as  though  these  were  present  in  the  lane  just  below 
the  window;  as  though  he  were  on  the  tribune.  At  such 
times  he  spoke  with  such  rapidity  that,  quick  though  she 
was,  she  could  scarcely  keep  up  with  him.  "Most  of  you, 
Soldiers,  are  workingmen  !"  he  cried.  "Yesterday  you  were 
slaving  in  the  mills  yourselves.  You  will  profit  by  our  vic 
tory.  Why  should  you  wish  to  crush  us?  Be  human!" 

Pale,  excited,  he  sank  down  into  the  chair  by  her  side  and 
lit  another  cigarette. 

"They  ought  to  listen  to  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's 
the  best  one  I've  done  yet." 

Night  had  come.  Czernowitz  sat  in  the  other  room, 
talking  to  Jastro,  a  buzz  of  voices  came  from  the  hall  through 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  375 

the  thin  pine  panels  of  the  door.  All  day  long  a  sixty-mile 
gale  had  twisted  the  snow  of  the  lane  into  whirling,  fantastic 
columns  and  rattled  the  windows  of  Franco-Belgian  Hall. 
But  now  the  wind  had  fallen.  .  .  .  Presently,  as  his  self-made 
music  ceased  to  vibrate  within  him,  Rolfe  began  to  watch 
the  girl  as  she  sat  motionless,  with  parted  lips  and  eyes 
alight,  staring  at  the  reflection  of  the  lamp  in  the  blue-black 
window. 

"Is  that  the  end?"  she  asked,  at  length. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  sensitively.  "Can't  you  see  it's  a 
climax?  Don't  you  think  it's  a  good  one?" 

She  looked  at  him,  puzzled. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  it's  fine.  You  see,  I  have 
to  take  it  down  so  fast  I  can't  always  follow  it  as  I'd  like  to." 

"When  you  feel,  you  can  do  anything,"  he  exclaimed. 
"It  is  necessary  to  feel." 

"It  is  necessary  to  know,"  she  told  him. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  cried,  leaning  toward  her. 
"  Sometimes  you  are  a  flame  —  a  wonderful,  scarlet  flame  — 
I  can  express  it  in  no  other  way.  Or  again,  you  are  like 
the  Madonna  of  our  new  faith,  and  I  wish  I  were  a  del  Sarto 
to  paint  you.  And  then  again  you  seem  as  cold  as  your  New 
England  snow,  you  have  no  feeling,  you  are  an  Anglo-Saxon 
—  a  Puritan." 

She  smiled,  though  she  felt  a  pang  of  reminiscence  at  the 
word.  Ditmar  had  called  her  so,  too. 

"I  can't  help  what  I  am,"  she  said. 

"It  is  that  which  inhibits  you,"  he  declared.  "That 
Puritanism.  It  must  be  eradicated  before  you  can  develop, 
and  then  —  and  then  you  will  be  completely  wonderful. 
When  this  strike  is  over,  when  we  have  time,  I  will  teach  you 
many  things  —  develop  you.  We  will  read  Sorel  together  — 
he  is  beautiful,  like  poetry  —  and  the  great  poets,  Dante  and 
Petrarch  and  Tasso  —  yes,  and  d'Annunzio.  We  shall  live." 


376  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"We  are  living,  now,"  she  answered.  The  look  with 
which  she  surveyed  him  he  found  enigmatic.  And  then, 
abruptly,  she  rose  and  went  to  her  typewriter. 

"You  don't  believe  what  I  say !"  he  reproached  her. 

But  she  was  cool.  "  I'm  not  sure  that  I  believe  all  of  it. 
I  want  to  think  it  out  for  myself  —  to  talk  to  others,  too." 

"What  others?" 

"Nobody  in  particular  —  everybody,"  she  replied,  as 
she  set  her  notebook  on  the  rack. 

"There  is  some  one  else!"  he  exclaimed,  rising. 

"There  is  every  one  else,"  she  said. 

As  was  his  habit  when  agitated,  he  began  to  smoke  fever 
ishly,  glancing  at  her  from  tune  to  time  as  she  fingered  the 
keys.  Experience  had  led  him  to  believe  that  he  who  finds 
a  woman  in  revolt  and  gives  her  a  religion  inevitably  be 
comes  her  possessor.  But  more  than  a  month  had  passed, 
he  had  not  become  her  possessor  —  and  now  for  the  first 
time  there  entered  his  mind  a  doubt  as  to  having  given  her 
a  religion  !  The  obvious  inference  was  that  of  another  man, 
of  another  influence  in  opposition  to  his  own ;  characteristi 
cally,  however,  he  shrank  from  accepting  this,  since  he  was  of 
those  who  believe  what  they  wish  to  believe.  The  sudden 
fear  of  losing  her  —  intruding  itself  immediately  upon  an 
ecstatic,  creative  mood  —  unnerved  him,  yet  he  strove  to 
appear  confident  as  he  stood  over  her. 

"When  you've  finished  typewriting  that,  we'll  go  out  to 
supper,"  he  told  her. 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  she  replied  —  and  then,  to  soften  her 
refusal,  she  added,  "I  can't,  to-night." 

"  But  you  never  will  come  with  me  any  more.     Why  is  it  ?  " 

"I'm  very  tired  at  night.  I  don't  feel  like  going  out." 
She  sought  to  temporize. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  377 

"You've  changed!"  he  accused  her.  "You're  not  the 
same  as  you  were  at  first  —  you  avoid  me." 

The  swift  gesture  with  which  she  flung  over  the  carriage 
of  her  machine  might  have  warned  him. 

"I  don't  like  that  Hampton  Hotel,"  she  flashed  back. 
"I'm  —  I'm  not  a  vagabond  —  yet." 

"A  vagabond!"  he  repeated. 

She  went  on  savagely  with  her  work.. 

"You  have  two  natures/'  he  exclaimed.  "You  are  still 
a  bourgeoise,  a  Puritan.  You  will  not  be  yourself,  you 
will  not  be  free  until  you  get  over  that." 

"I'm  not  sure  I  want  to  get  over  it." 

He  leaned  nearer  to  her. 

"But  now  that  I  have  found  you,  Janet,  I  will  not  let 
you  go." 

"You've  no  rights  over  me,"  she  cried,  in  sudden  alarm 
and  anger.  "I'm  not  doing  this  work,  I'm  not  wearing  my 
self  out  here  for  you." 

"Then  —  why  are  you  doing  it?"  His  suspicions  rose 
again,  and  made  him  reckless. 

"To  help  the  strikers,"  she  said.  .  .  .  He  could  get  no 
more  out  of  her,  and  presently,  when  Anna  Mower  entered 
the  room,  he  left  it.  ... 


More  than  once  since  her  first  visit  to  the  soup  kitchen 
in  Dey  Street  Janet  had  returned  to  it.  The  universe 
rocked,  but  here  was  equilibrium.  The  streets  were  filled 
with  soldiers,  with  marching  strikers,  terrible  things  were 
constantly  happening;  the  tension  at  Headquarters  never 
seemed  to  relax.  Out  in  the  world  and  within  her  own  soul 
were  strife  and  suffering,  and  sometimes  fear;  the  work 
in  which  she  sought  to  lose  herself  no  longer  sufficed  to  keep 
her  from  thinking,  and  the  spectacle  —  when  she  returned 


378  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

home  —  of  her  mother's  increasing  apathy  grew  more  and 
more  appalling.  But  in  Dey  Street  she  gained  calmness,  was 
able  to  renew  something  of  that  sense  of  proportion  the  lack 
of  which,  in  the  chaos  in  which  she  was  engulfed,  often 
brought  her  to  the  verge  of  madness.  At  first  she  had  had  a 
certain  hesitation  about  going  back,  and  on  the  occasion  of 
her  second  visit  had  walked  twice  around  the  block  before 
venturing  to  enter.  She  had  no  claim  on  this  man.  He  was 
merely  a  chance  acquaintance,  a  stranger  —  and  yet  he 
seemed  nearer  to  her,  to  understand  her  better  than  any  one 
else  she  knew  in  the  world.  This  was  queer,  because  she 
had  not  explained  herself;  nor  had  he  asked  her  for  any 
confidences.  She  would  have  liked  to  confide  in  him  — 
some  things :  he  gave  her  the  impression  of  comprehending 
life ;  of  having,  as  his  specialty,  humanity  itself ;  he  should, 
she  reflected,  have  been  a  minister,  and  smiled  at  the  thought : 
ministers,  at  any  rate,  ought  to  be  like  him,  and  then  one 
might  embrace  Christianity  —  the  religion  of  her  fore 
fathers  that  Rolfe  ridiculed.  But  there  was  about  Insall 
nothing  of  religion  as  she  had  grown  up  to  apprehend  the 
term. 

Now  that  she  had  taken  her  courage  in  her  hands  and 
renewed  her  visits,  they  seemed  to  be  the  most  natural  pro 
ceedings  in  the  world.  On  that  second  occasion,  when  she 
had  opened  the  door  and  palpitatingly  climbed  to  the  loft, 
the  second  batch  of  children  were  finishing  their  midday 
meal,  —  rather  more  joyously,  she  thought,  than  before,  — 
and  Insall  himself  was  stooping  over  a  small  boy  whom  he 
had  taken  away  from  the  table.  He  did  not  notice  her  at 
once,  and  Janet  watched  them.  The  child  had  a  cough,  his 
extreme  thinness  was  emphasized  by  the  coat  he  wore, 
several  sizes  too  large  for  him. 

"You  come  along  with  me,  Marcus,  I  guess  I  can  fit  you 
out/'  Insall  was  saying,  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  Janet. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  379 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  Miss  Bumpus  !     I  thought  you'd  forgotten 


us." 


"Oh  no,"  she  protested.     "I  wanted  to  come." 

"Then  why  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  I  have  come,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh,  and  he 
did  not  press  her  further.  And  she  refrained  from  offering 
any  conventional  excuse,  such  as  that  of  being  interested 
in  the  children.  She  had  come  to  see  him,  and  such  was 
the  faith  with  which  he  inspired  her  —  now  that  she  was 
once  more  in  his  presence  —  that  she  made  no  attempt  to 
hide  the  fact. 

"You've  never  seen  my  clothing  store,  have  you?"  he 
asked.  And  with  the  child's  hand  hi  his  he  led  the  way 
into  a  room  at  the  rear  of  the  loft.  A  kit  of  carpenter's 
tools  was  on  the  floor,  and  one  wall  was  lined  with  box-like 
compartments  made  of  new  wood,  each  with  its  label  in 
neat  lettering  indicating  the  articles  contained  therein. 
"  Shoes  ?  "  he  repeated,  as  he  ran  his  eye  down  the  labels  and 
suddenly  opened  a  drawer.  "Here  we  are,  Marcus.  Sit  down 
there  on  the  bench,  and  take  off  the  shoes  you  have  on." 

The  boy  had  one  of  those  long  faces  of  the  higher  Jewish 
type,  intelligent,  wistful.  He  seemed  dazed  by  Insall's 
kindness.  The  shoes  he  wore  were  those  of  an  adult,  but 
cracked  and  split,  revealing  the  cotton  stocking  and  here 
and  there  the  skin.  His  little  blue  hands  fumbled  with 
the  knotted  strings  that  served  for  lacings  until  Insall,  pro 
ducing  a  pocket  knife,  deftly  cut  the  strings. 

"Those  are  summer  shoes,  Marcus  —  well  ventilated." 

"They're  by  me  since  August,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  now  the  stockings,"  prompted  Insall.  The  old 
ones,  wet,  discoloured,  and  torn,  were  stripped  off,  and 
thick,  woollen  ones  substituted.  Insall,  casting  his  eye 
over  the  open  drawer,  chose  a  pah*  of  shoes  that  had  been 
worn,  but  which  were  stout  and  serviceable,  and  taking  one 


380  THE  DWELLING-PLACE   OF  LIGHT 

in  his  hand  knelt  down  before  the  child.  "Let's  see  how 
good  a  guesser  I  am,"  he  said,  loosening  the  strings  and 
turning  back  the  tongue,  imitating  good-humouredly  the 
deferential  manner  of  a  salesman  of  footwear  as  he  slipped  on 
the  shoe.  "  Why,  it  fits  as  if  it  were  made  for  you !  Now 
for  the  other  one.  Yes,  your  feet  are  mates  —  I  know  a 
man  who  wears  a  whole  size  larger  on  his  left  foot."  The 
dazed  expression  remained  on  the  boy's  face.  The  ex 
perience  was  beyond  him.  "That's  better,"  said  Insall, 
as  he  finished  the  lacing.  "Keep  out  of  the  snow,  Marcus, 
all  you  can.  Wet  feet  aren't  good  for  a  cough,  you  know. 
And  when  you  come  in  to  supper  a  nice  doctor  will  be  here, 
and  we'll  see  if  we  can't  get  rid  of  the  cough." 

The  boy  nodded.  He  got  to  his  feet,  stared  down  at 
the  shoes,  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  door,  where  he 
turned. 

"Thank  you,  Mister  Insall,"  he  said. 

And  Insall,  still  sitting  on  his  heels,  waved  his  hand. 

"It  is  not  to  mention  it,"  he  replied.  "Perhaps  you 
may  have  a  clothing  store  of  your  own  some  day  —  who 
knows !"  He  looked  up  at  Janet  amusedly  and  then,  with 
a  spring,  stood  upright,  his  easy,  unconscious  pose  betoken 
ing  command  of  soul  and  body.  "I  ought  to  have  kept  a 
store,"  he  observed.  "I  missed  my  vocation." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  missed  a  great  many  vocations," 
she  replied.  Commonplaces  alone  seemed  possible,  ade 
quate.  "I  suppose  you  made  all  those  drawers  yourself." 

He  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  her  implied  tribute. 
With  his  fine  nose  and  keen  eyes  —  set  at  a  slightly  down 
ward  angle,  creased  at  the  corners  —  with  his  thick,  greying 
hair,  despite  his  comparative  youth  he  had  the  look  one 
associates  with  portraits  of  earlier,  patriarchal  Americans.  . . . 
These  calls  of  Janet's  were  never  of  long  duration.  She  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  taking  her  lunch  between  one  and 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  381 

two,  and  usually  arrived  when  the  last  installment  of  young 
sters  were  finishing  their  meal ;  sometimes  they  were  filing 
out,  stopping  to  form  a  group  around  Insall,  who  always 
managed  to  say  something  amusing  —  something  pertinent 
and  good-naturedly  personal.  For  he  knew  most  of  them 
by  name,  and  had  acquired  a  knowledge  of  certain  individual 
propensities  and  idiosyncrasies  that  delighted  their  com 
panions. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Stepan —  swallowed  your  spoon?" 
Stepan  was  known  to  be  greedy.  Or  he  would  suddenly 
seize  an  unusually  solemn  boy  from  behind  and  tickle  him 
until  the  child  screamed  with  laughter.  It  was,  indeed, 
something  of  an  achievement  to  get  on  terms  of  confidence 
with  these  alien  children  of  the  tenements  and  the  streets 
who  from  their  earliest  years  had  been  forced  to  shift  for 
themselves,  and  many  of  whom  had  acquired  a  precocious 
suspicion  of  Greeks  bearing  gifts.  Insall  himself  had  used 
the  phrase,  and  explained  it  to  Janet.  That  sense  of  caveat 
donor  was  perhaps  their  most  pathetic  characteristic.  But 
he  broke  it  down ;  broke  down,  too,  the  shyness  accompany 
ing  it,  the  shyness  and  solemnity  emphasized  in  them  by 
contact  with  hardship  and  poverty,  with  the  stark  side  of 
life  they  faced  at  home.  He  had  made  them  —  Mrs.  Maturin 
once  illuminatingly  remarked  —  more  like  children.  Some 
times  he  went  to  see  their  parents,  —  as  in  the  case  of  Marcus 
—  to  suggest  certain  hygienic  precautions  in  his  humorous 
way;  and  his  accounts  of  these  visits,  too,  were  always 
humorous.  Yet  through  that  humour  ran  a  strain  of  pathos 
that  clutched  —  despite  her  smile  —  at  Janet's  heartstrings. 
This  gift  of  emphasizing  and  heightening  tragedy  while 
apparently  dealing  in  comedy  she  never  ceased  to  wonder  at. 
She,  too,  knew  that  tragedy  of  the  tenements,  of  the  poor, 
its  sordidness  and  cruelty.  All  her  days  she  had  lived  pre 
cariously  near  it,  and  lately  she  had  visited  these  people, 


382  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

had  been  torn  by  the  sight  of  what  they  endured.  But 
Insall's  jokes,  while  they  stripped  it  of  sentimentality  — 
of  which  she  had  an  instinctive  dislike  —  made  it  for  her- 
even  more  poignant.  One  would  have  thought,  to  have 
such  an  insight  into  it,  that  he  too  must  have  lived  it,  must 
have  been  brought  up  in  some  dirty  alley  of  a  street.  That 
gift,  of  course,  must  be  a  writer's  gift. 

When  she  saw  the  waifs  trooping  after  him  down 
the  stairs,  Mrs.  Maturin  called  him  the  Pied  Piper  of 
Hampton. 

As  time  went  on,  Janet  sometimes  wondered  over  the 
quiet  manner  in  which  these  two  people,  Insall  and  Mrs. 
Maturin,  took  her  visits  as  though  they  were  matters  of 
course,  and  gave  her  their  friendship.  There  was,  really, 
no  obvious  excuse  for  her  coming,  not  even  that  of  the 
waifs  for  food  —  and  yet  she  came  to  be  fed.  The  suste 
nance  they  gave  her  would  have  been  hard  to  define;  it 
flowed  not  so  much  from  what  they  said,  as  from  what  they 
were ;  it  was  in  the  atmosphere  surrounding  them.  Some 
times  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Maturin  to  ask  herself  what  this 
lady  would  say  if  she  knew  her  history,  her  relationship  with 
Ditmar  —  which  had  been  her  real  reason  for  entering  the 
ranks  of  the  strikers.  And  was  it  fair  for  her,  Janet,  to 
permit  Mrs.  Maturin  to  bestow  her  friendship  without 
revealing  this  ?  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  as  to  what 
this  lady  would  say.  Janet  had  had  no  difficulty  in  placing 
Ditmar;  not  much  trouble,  after  her  first  surprise  was 
over,  in  classifying  Rolfe  and  the  itinerant  band  of  syndi 
calists  who  had  descended  upon  her  restricted  world.  But 
Insall  and  Mrs.  Maturin  were  not  to  be  ticketed.  What 
chiefly  surprised  her,  in  addition  to  their  kindliness,  to 
their  taking  her  on  faith  without  the  formality  of  any  recom 
mendation  or  introduction,  was  their  lack  of  intellectual 
narrowness.  She  did  not,  of  course,  so  express  it.  But 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  383 

she  sensed,  in  their  presence,  from  references  casually  let 
fall  in  their  conversation,  a  wider  culture  of  which  they 
were  in  possession,  a  culture  at  once  puzzling  and  exciting, 
one  that  she  despaired  of  acquiring  for  herself.  Though 
it  came  from  reading,  it  did  not  seem  "literary,"  according 
to  the  notion  she  had  conceived  of  the  term.  Her  specula 
tions  concerning  it  must  be  focussed  and  interpreted.  It 
was  a  culture,  in  the  first  place,  not  harnessed  to  an  ob 
vious  Cause :  something  like  that  struck  her.  It  was  a 
culture  that  contained  tolerance  and  charity,  that  did  not 
label  a  portion  of  mankind  as  its  enemy,  but  seemed,  by 
understanding  all,  to  forgive  all.  It  had  no  prejudices ;  nor 
did  it  boast,  as  the  Syndicalists  boasted,  of  its  absence 
of  convention.  And  little  by  little  Janet  connected  it  with 
Silliston. 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  live  in  such  a  place  as  that," 
she  exclaimed,  when  the  Academy  was  mentioned.  On 
this  occasion  Insall  had  left  for  a  moment,  and  she  was  in 
the  little  room  he  called  his  "  store,"  alone  with  Mrs.  Maturin, 
helping  to  sort  out  a  batch  of  garments  just  received. 

"It  was  there  you  first  met  Brooks,  wasn't  it?"  She 
always  spoke  of  him  as  Brooks.  "  He  told  me  about  it,  how 
you  walked  out  there  and  asked  him  about  a  place  to  lunch." 
Mrs.  Maturin  laughed.  "You  didn't  know  what  to  make 
of  him,  did  you?" 

"I  thought  he  was  a  carpenter!"  said  Janet.  "I  —  I 
never  should  have  taken  him  for  an  author.  But  of  course 
I  don't  know  any  other  authors." 

"Well,  he's  not  like  any  of  them,  he's  just  like  himself. 
You  can't  put  a  tag  on  people  who  are  really  big." 

Janet  considered  this.  "I  never  thought  of  that.  I 
suppose  not,"  she  agreed. 

Mrs.  Maturin  glanced  at  her.  "So  you  liked  Silliston/' 
she  said. 


384  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  liked  it  better  than  any  place  I  ever  saw.  I  haven't 
seen  many  places,  but  I'm  sure  that  few  can  be  nicer." 

"What  did  you  like  about  it,  Janet?"  Mrs.  Maturin 
was  interested. 

"It's  hard  to  say,"  Janet  replied,  after  a  moment.  "It 
gave  me  such  a  feeling  of  peace  —  of  having  come  home, 
although  I  lived  in  Hampton.  I  can't  express  it." 

"I  think  you're  expressing  it  rather  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Maturin. 

"It  was  so  beautiful  in  the  spring,"  Janet  continued, 
dropping  the  coat  she  held  into  the  drawer.  "  And  it  wasn't 
just  the  trees  and  the  grass  with  the  yellow  dandelions, 
it  was  the  houses,  too  —  I've  often  wondered  why  those 
houses  pleased  me  so  much.  I  wanted  to  live  in  every  one 
of  them.  Do  you  know  that  feeling?"  Mrs.  Maturin 
nodded.  "They  didn't  hurt  your  eyes  when  you  looked  at 
them,  and  they  seemed  to  be  so  much  at  home  there,  even 
the  new  ones.  The  new  ones  were  like  the  children  of  the 
old." 

"I'll  tell  the  architect.  He'll  be  pleased,"  said  Mrs. 
Maturin. 

Janet  flushed. 

"Am  I  being  silly?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Maturin  replied.  "  You've  expressed 
what  I  feel  about  Silliston.  What  do  you  intend  to  do  when 
the  strike  is  over  ?  " 

"I  hadn't  thought."  Janet  started  at  the  question,  but 
Mrs.  Maturin  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  dismay  in  her  tone. 
"  You  don't  intend  to  —  to  travel  around  with  the  I.  W.  W. 
people,  do  you?" 

"I  — I  hadn't  thought,"  Janet  faltered.  It  was  the 
first  time  Mrs.  Maturin  had  spoken  of  her  connection  with 
Syndicalism.  And  she  surprised  herself  by  adding:  "I 
don't  see  how  I  could.  They  can  get  stenographers  any- 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  385 

where,  and  that's  all  I'm  good  for."     And  the    question 
occurred  to  her  —  did  she  really  wish  to  ? 

"What  I  was  going  to  suggest,"  continued  Mrs.  Maturin, 
quietly,  "was  that  you  might  try  Silliston.  There's  a 
chance  for  a  good  stenographer  there,  and  I'm  sure  you  are 
a  good  one.  So  many  of  the  professors  send  to  Boston." 

Janet  stood  stock  still.  Then  she  said :  "  But  you  don't 
know  anything  about  me,  Mrs.  Maturin." 

Kindliness  burned  in  the  lady's  eyes  as  she  replied :  "  I 
know  more  now  —  since  you've  told  me  I  know  nothing. 
Of  course  there's  much  I  don't  know,  how  you,  a  stenog 
rapher,  became  involved  in  this  strike  and  joined  the  I.  W.  W. 
But  you  shall  tell  me  or  not,  as  you  wish,  when  we  become 
better  friends." 

Janet  felt  the  blood  beating  in  her  throat,  and  an  impulse 
to  confess  everything  almost  mastered  her.  From  the  first 
she  had  felt  drawn  toward  Mrs.  Maturin,  who  seemed  to 
hold  out  to  her  the  promise  of  a  woman's  friendship  —  for 
which  she  had  felt  a  life-long  need:  a  woman  friend  who 
would  understand  the  insatiate  yearning  in  her  that  gave 
her  no  rest  in  her  search  for  a  glittering  essence  never  found, 
that  had  led  her  only  to  new  depths  of  bitterness  and  despair. 
It  would  destroy  her,  if  indeed  it  had  not  already  done  so. 
Mrs.  Maturin,  Insall,  seemed  to  possess  the  secret  that 
would  bring  her  peace  —  and  yet,  in  spite  of  something 
urging  her  to  speak,  she  feared  the  risk  of  losing  them. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  they  would  not  understand !  perhaps  it 
was  too  late ! 

"You  do  not  believe  in  the  Industrial  Wrorkers  of  the 
World,"  was  what  she  said. 

Mrs.  Maturin  herself,  who  had  been  moved  and  excited 
as  she  gazed  at  Janet,  was  taken  by  surprise.     A  few  moments 
elapsed  before  she  could  gather  herself  to  reply,  and  then 
she  managed  to  smile. 
2c 


386  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I  do  not  believe  that  wisdom  will  die  with  them,  my 
dear.  Their  —  their  doctrine  is  too  simple,  it  does  not 
seem  as  if  life,  the  social  order  is  to  be  so  easily  solved." 

"But  you  must  sympathize  with  them,  with  the  strikers." 
Janet's  gesture  implied  that  the  soup  kitchen  was  proof  of 
this. 

"Ah,"  replied  Mrs.  Maturin,  gently,  "that  is  different  — 
to  understand  them.  There  is  one  philosophy  for  the  lamb, 
and  another  for  the  wolf." 

"You  mean,"  said  Janet,  trembling,  "that  what  happens 
to  us  makes  us  inclined  to  believe  certain  things?" 

"Precisely,"  agreed  Mrs.  Maturin,  in  admiration.  "But 
I  must  be  honest  with  you,  it  was  Brooks  who  made  me 
see  it." 

"  But  —  he  never  said  that  to  me.  And  I  asked  him  once, 
almost  the  same  question." 

"He  never  said  it  to  me,  either,"  Mrs.  Maturin  confessed. 
"  He  doesn't  tell  you  what  he  believes ;  I  simply  gathered 
that  this  is  his  idea.  And  apparently  the  workers  can  only 
improve  their  condition  by  strikes,  by  suffering  —  it  seems 
to  be  the  only  manner  in  which  they  can  convince  the  em 
ployers  that  the  conditions  are  bad.  It  isn't  the  employers' 
fault." 

"  Not  their  fault ! "  Janet  repeated. 

"Not  in  a  large  sense,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin.  "When 
people  grow  up  to  look  at  life  in  a  certain  way,  from  a  certain 
viewpoint,  it  is  difficult,  almost  impossible  to  change  them. 
It's  —  it's  their  religion.  They  are  convinced  that  if  the 
world  doesn't  go  on  in  their  way,  according  to  their  prin 
ciples,  everything  will  be  destroyed.  They  aren't  inhuman. 
Within  limits  everybody  is  more  than  willing  to  help  the 
world  along,  if  only  they  can  be  convinced  that  what  they 
are  asked  to  do  will  help." 

Janet  breathed  deeply.     She  was  thinking  of  Ditmar. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  387 

And  Mrs.  Maturin,  regarding  her,  tactfully  changed  the 
subject. 

"I  didn't  intend  to  give  you  a  lecture  on  sociology  or 
psychology,  my  dear/'  she  said.  "I  know  nothing  about 
them,  although  we  have  a  professor  who  does.  Think 
over  what  I've  said  about  coming  to  Silliston.  It  will  do 
you  good  —  you  are  working  too  hard  here.  I  know  you 
would  enjoy  Silliston.  And  Brooks  takes  such  an  interest 
in  you,"  she  added  impulsively.  "  It  is  quite  a  compliment." 

"But  why?"  Janet  demanded,  bewildered. 

"  Perhaps  it's  because  you  have  —  possibilities.  You 
may  be  typewriting  his  manuscripts.  And  then,  I  am  a 
widow,  and  often  rather  lonely  —  you  could  come  in  and 
read  to  me  occasionally." 

"But  —  I've  never  read  anything." 

"  How  fortunate ! "  said  Insall,  who  had  entered  the 
doorway  in  time  to  hear  Janet's  exclamation.  "More 
than  half  of  modern  culture  depends  on  what  one  shouldn't 
read." 

Mrs.  Maturin  laughed.  But  Insall  waved  his  hand  de- 
precatingly. 

"That  isn't  my  own,"  he  confessed.  "I  cribbed  it  from 
a  clever  Englishman.  But  I  believe  it's  true." 


"I  think  I'll  adopt  her,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin  to  Insall, 
when  she  had  repeated  to  him  the  conversation.  "  I  know  — 
you  are  always  convicting  me  of  enthusiasms,  Brooks,  and 
I  suppose  I  do  get  enthusiastic." 

"Well,  you  adopt  her  —  and  I'll  marry  her,"  replied  Insall, 
with  a  smile,  as  he  cut  the  string  from  the  last  bundle  of 
clothing. 

"You  might  do  worse.     It  would  be  a  joke  if  you  did !" 


388  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

His  friend  paused  to  consider  this  preposterous  possibility. 
"One  never  can  tell  whom  a  man  like  you,  an  artist,  will 
marry." 

"We've  no  business  to  marry  at  all,"  said  Insall,  laugh 
ing.  "  I  often  wonder  where  that  romantic  streak  will  land 
you,  Augusta.  But  you  do  have  a  delightful  time !" 

"Don't  begrudge  it  me,  it  makes  life  so  much  more  in 
teresting,"  Mrs.  Maturin  begged,  returning  his  smile.  "I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  that  you  will  marry  her  or  any  one 
else.  But  I  insist  on  saying  she's  your  type  —  she's  the 
kind  of  a  person  artists  do  dig  up  and  marry  —  only  better 
than  most  of  them,  far  better." 

"Dig  up?"  said  Insall. 

"  Well,  you  know  I'm  not  a  snob  —  I  only  mean  that  she 
seems  to  be  one  of  the  surprising  anomalies  that  sometimes 
occur  in  —  what  shall  I  say?  —  in  the  working-classes.  I 
do  feel  like  a  snob  when  I  say  that.  But  what  is  it  ?  Where 
does  that  spark  come  from?  Is  it  in  our  modern  air,  that 
discontent,  that  desire,  that  thrusting  forth  toward  a  new 
light  —  something  as  yet  unf ormulated,  but  which  we  all 
feel,  even  at  small  institutions  of  learning  like  Silliston?" 

"Now  you're  getting  beyond  me." 

"Oh  no,  I'm  not,"  Mrs.  Maturin  retorted  confidently. 
"If  you  won't  talk  about  it,  I  will,  I  have  no  shame.  And 
this  girl  has  it  —  this  thing  I'm  trying  to  express.  She's 
modern  to  her  finger  tips,  and  yet  she's  extraordinarily 
American  —  in  spite  of  her  modernity,  she  embodies  in 
some  queer  way  our  tradition.  She  loves  our  old  houses 
at  Silliston  —  they  make  her  feel  at  home  —  that's  her 
own  expression." 

"Did  she  say  that?" 

"Exactly.  And  I  know  she's  of  New  England  ancestry, 
she  told  me  so.  What  I  can't  make  out  is,  why  she  joined 
the  I.W.W.  That  seems  so  contradictory." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  389 

"Perhaps  she  was  searching  for  light  there,"  Insall  haz 
arded.  "Why  don't  you  ask  her ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Maturin,  thoughtfully. 
"I  want  to,  my  curiosity  almost  burns  me  alive,  and  yet 
I  don't.  She  isn't  the  kind  you  can  ask  personal  questions 
of  —  that's  part  of  her  charm,  part  of  her  individuality. 
One  is  a  little  afraid  to  intrude.  And  yet  she  keeps  coming 
here  —  of  course  you  are  a  sufficient  attraction,  Brooks. 
But  I  must  give  her  the  credit  of  not  flirting  with  you." 

"I've  noticed  that,  too,"  said  Insall,  comically. 

"She's  searching  for  light,"  Mrs.  Maturin  went  on,  struck 
by  the  phrase.  "She  has  an  instinct  we  can  give  it  to  her, 
because  we  come  from  an  institution  of  learning.  I  felt 
something  of  the  kind  when  I  suggested  her  establishing 
herself  in  Silliston.  Well,  she's  more  than  worth  while 
experimenting  on,  she  must  have  lived  and  breathed  what 
you  call  the  '  mo  vie  atmosphere'  all  her  life,  and  yet  she 
never  seems  to  have  read  and  absorbed  any  sentimental 
literature  or  cheap  religion.  She  doesn't  suggest  the  tawdry. 
That  part  of  her,  the  intellectual  part,  is  a  clear  page  to  be 
written  upon." 

"There's  my  chance,"  said  Insall. 

"No,  it's  my  chance  —  since  you're  so  cynical." 

"I'm  not  cynical,"  he  protested. 

"I  don't  believe  you  really  are.  And  if  you  are,  there 
may  be  a  judgment  upon  you,"  she  added  playfully.  "I 
tell  you  she's  the  kind  of  woman  artists  go  mad  about. 
She  has  what  sentimentalists  call  temperament,  and  after 
all  we  haven't  any  better  word  to  express  dynamic  desires. 
She'd  keep  you  stirred  up,  stimulated,  and  you  could  edu 
cate  her." 

"No,  thanks,  I'll  leave  that  to  you.  He  who  educates 
a  woman  is  lost.  But  how  about  Syndicalism  and  all  the 
mysticism  that  goes  with  it?  There's  an  intellectual  over 


390  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

at  Headquarters  who's  been  talking  to  her  about  Bergson, 
the  life-force,  and  the  World-We-Ourselves-Create." 

Mrs.  Maturin  laughed. 

"Well,  we  go  wrong  when  we  don't  go  right.  That's 
just  it,  we  must  go  some  way.  And  I'm  sure,  from  what  I 
gather,  that  she  isn't  wholly  satisfied  with  Syndicalism." 

"What  is  right?  "  demanded  Insall. 

"Oh,  I  don't  intend  to  turn  her  over  to  Mr.  Worrall 
and  make  a  sociologist  and  a  militant  suffragette  out  of 
her.  She  isn't  that  kind,  anyhow.  But  I  could  give 
her  good  literature  to  read  —  yours,  for  instance,"  she 
added  maliciously. 

"You're  preposterous,  Augusta,"  Insall  exclaimed. 

"I  may  be,  but  you've  got  to  indulge  me.  I've  taken 
this  fancy  to  her  —  of  course  I  mean  to  see  more  of  her. 
But  —  you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  me,  sometimes,  since 
I've  been  left  alone." 

Insall  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  her  shoulder. 

"  I  remember  what  you  said  the  first  day  I  saw  her,  that 
the  strike  was  in  her,"  Mrs.  Maturin  continued.  "Well,  I 
see  now  that  she  does  express  and  typify  it  —  and  I  don't 
mean  the  ' labour  movement'  alone,  or  this  strike  in  Hamp 
ton,  which  is  symptomatic,  but  crude.  I  mean  something 
bigger  —  and  I  suppose  you  do  —  the  protest,  the  revolt, 
the  struggle  for  self-realization  that  is  beginning  to  be  felt 
all  over  the  nation,  all  over  the  world  to-day,  that  is  not 
yet  focussed  and  self-conscious,  but  groping  its  way,  clothing 
itself  in  any  philosophy  that  seems  to  fit  it.  I  can  imagine 
myself  how  such  a  strike  as  this  might  appeal  to  a  girl  with 
a  sense  of  rebellion  against  sordidness  and  lack  of  oppor 
tunity  —  especially  if  she  has  had  a  tragic  experience.  And 
sometimes  I  suspect  she  has  had  one." 

"Well,  it's  an  interesting  theory,"  Insall  admitted  in 
dulgently. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  391 

"I'm  merely  amplifying  your  suggestions,  only  you 
won't  admit  that  they  are  yours.  And  she  was  your  pro 
tegee." 

"And  you  are  going  to  take  her  off  my  hands." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE  Hampton  strike  had  reached  the  state  of  grim  dead 
lock  characteristic  of  all  stubborn  wars.  There  were  ag 
gressions,  retaliations  on  both  sides,  the  antagonism  grew 
more  intense.  The  older  labour  unions  were  accused  by 
the  strikers  of  playing  the  employers'  game,  and  thus  grew 
to  be  hated  even  more  than  the  "capitalists."  These  or 
ganizations  of  the  skilled  had  entered  but  half-heartedly 
into  a  struggle  that  now  began  to  threaten,  indeed,  their 
very  existence,  and  when  it  was  charged  that  the  Textile 
Workers  had  been  attempting  to  secure  recruits  from  the 
ranks  of  the  strikers,  and  had  secretly  offered  the  mill- 
owners  a  scale  of  demands  in  the  hope  that  a  sufficient 
number  of  operatives  would  return  to  work,  and  so  break 
the  strike,  a  serious  riot  was  barely  averted.  "Scab-hunt 
ing  agencies,"  the  unions  were  called.  One  morning  when 
it  was  learned  that  the  loom-fixers,  almost  to  a  man,  had 
gone  back  to  the  mills,  a  streetcar  was  stopped  near  the 
power  house  at  the  end  of  Faber  Street,  and  in  a  twinkling, 
before  the  militia  or  police  could  interfere,  motorman, 
conductor,  and  passengers  were  dragged  from  it  and  the 
trolley  pole  removed.  This  and  a  number  of  similar  ag 
gressive  acts  aroused  the  mill-owners  and  their  agents  to 
appeal  with  renewed  vigour  to  the  public  through  the  news 
papers,  which  it  was  claimed  they  owned  or  subsidized. 
Then  followed  a  series  of  arraignments  of  the  strike  leaders 
calculated  to  stir  the  wildest  prejudices  and  fears  of  the 

392 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  393 

citizens  of  Hampton.  Antonelli  and  Jastro  —  so  rumour 
had  it  —  in  various  nightly  speeches  had  advised  their 
followers  to  "sleep  in  the  daytime  and  prowl  like  wild  ani 
mals  at  night"  ;  urged  the  power  house  employees  to  desert 
and  leave  the  city  in  darkness;  made  the  declaration,  "We 
will  win  if  we  raise  scaffolds  on  every  street!"  insisted 
that  the  strikers,  too,  should  have  "gun  permits,"  since 
the  police  hirelings  carried  arms.  And  the  fact  that  the 
mill-owners  replied  with  pamphlets  whose  object  was  pro 
claimed  to  be  one  of  discrediting  their  leaders  in  the  eyes 
of  the  public  still  further  infuriated  the  strikers.  Such 
charges,  of  course,  had  to  be  vehemently  refuted,  the  motives 
behind  them  made  clear,  and  counter-accusations  laid  at 
the  door  of  the  mill-owners. 

The  atmosphere  at  Headquarters  daily  grew  more  tense. 
At  any  moment  the  spark  might  be  supplied  to  precipitate 
an  explosion  that  would  shake  the  earth.  The  hungry, 
made  more  desperate  by  their  own  sufferings  or  the  spec 
tacle  of  starving  families,  were  increasingly  difficult  to 
control :  many  wished  to  return  to  work,  others  clamoured 
for  violence,  nor  were  these  wholly  discouraged  by  a  por 
tion  of  the  leaders.  A  riot  seemed  imminent  —  a  riot 
Antonelli  feared  and  firmly  opposed,  since  it  would  alienate 
the  sympathy  of  that  wider  public  in  the  country  on  which 
the  success  of  the  strike  depended.  Watchful,  yet  ap 
parently  unconcerned,  unmoved  by  the  quarrels,  the  fierce 
demands  for  "action,"  he  sat  on  the  little  stage,  smoking 
his  cigars  and  reading  his  newspapers. 

Janet's  nerves  were  taut.  There  had  been  times  during 
the  past  weeks  when  she  had  been  aware  of  new  and  vaguely 
disquieting  portents.  Inexperience  had  led  her  to  belittle 
them,  and  the  absorbing  nature  of  her  work,  the  excite 
ment  due  to  the  strange  life  of  conflict,  of  new  ideas, 
into  which  she  had  so  unreservedly  flung  herself,  the 


394  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

resentment  that  galvanized  her  —  all  these  had  diverted 
her  from  worry.  At  night,  hers  had  been  the  oblivious 
slumber  of  the  weary.  .  .  .  And  then,  as  a  desperate 
wayfarer,  pressing  on,  feels  a  heavy  drop  of  rain  and 
glances  up  to  perceive  the  clouds  that  have  long  been 
gathering,  she  awoke  in  the  black  morning  hours,  and  fear 
descended  upon  her.  Suddenly  her  brain  became  hideously 
active  as  she  lay,  dry-lipped,  staring  into  the  darkness, 
striving  to  convince  herself  that  it  could  not  be.  But  the 
thing  had  its  advocate,  also,  to  summon  ingeniously,  in 
cumulative  array,  those  omens  she  had  ignored :  to  cause 
her  to  piece  together,  in  this  moment  of  torture,  portions 
of  the  knowledge  of  sexual  facts  that  prudery  banishes  from 
education,  a  smattering  of  which  reaches  the  ears  of  such 
young  women  as  Janet  in  devious,  roundabout  ways.  Several 
times,  in  the  month  just  past,  she  had  had  unwonted  attacks 
of  dizziness,  of  faintness,  and  on  one  occasion  Anna  Mower, 
alarmed,  had  opened  the  window  of  the  bibliotheque  and 
thrust  her  into  the  cold  air.  Now,  with  a  pang  of  fear 
she  recalled  what  Anna  had  said :  — 

"  You're  working  too  hard  —  you  hadn't  ought  to  stay 
here  nights.  If  it  was  some  girls  I've  met,  I'd  know  what 
to  think." 

Strange  that  the  significance  of  this  sentence  had  failed 
to  penetrate  her  consciousness  until  now !  "  //  it  was  some 
girls  I've  met,  I'd  know  what  to  think!"  It  had  come  into 
her  mind  abruptly ;  and  always,  when  she  sought  to  reassure 
herself,  to  declare  her  terror  absurd,  it  returned  to  con 
front  her.  Heat  waves  pulsed  through  her,  she  grew  in 
tolerably  warm,  perspiration  started  from  her  pores,  and 
she  flung  off  the  blankets.  The  rain  from  the  roofs  was 
splashing  on  the  bricks  of  the  passage.  .  .  .  What  would 
Mr.  Insall  say,  if  he  knew  ?  and  Mrs.  Maturin  ?  She  could 
never  see  them  again.  Now  there  was  no  one  to  whom  to 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  395 

turn,  she  was  cut  off,  utterly,  from  humanity,  an  outcast. 
Like  Lise!  And  only  a  little  while  ago  she  and  Lise  had 
lain  in  that  bed  together!  Was  there  not  somebody  — 
God?  Other  people  believed  in  God,  prayed  to  him.  She 
tried  to  say,  "Oh  God,  deliver  me  from  this  thing!"  but 
the  words  seemed  a  mockery.  After  all,  it  was  mechanical, 
it  had  either  happened  or  it  hadn't  happened.  A  life-long 
experience  in  an  environment  where  only  unpleasant  things 
occurred,  where  miracles  were  unknown,  had  effaced  a 
fleeting,  childhood  belief  in  miracles.  Cause  and  effect 
were  the  rule.  And  if  there  were  a  God  who  did  interfere, 
why  hadn't  he  interfered  before  this  thing  happened  ?  Then 
would  have  been  the  logical  tune.  Why  hadn't  he  informed 
her  that  in  attempting  to  escape  from  the  treadmill  in  which 
he  had  placed  her,  in  seeking  happiness,  she  had  been  court 
ing  destruction?  Why  had  he  destroyed  Lise?  And  if 
there  were  a  God,  would  he  comfort  her  now,  convey  to  her 
some  message  of  his  sympathy  and  love?  No  such  message, 
alas,  seemed  to  come  to  her  through  the  darkness. 

After  a  while  —  a  seemingly  interminable  while  —  the 
siren  shrieked,  the  bells  jangled  loudly  in  the  wet  air,  another 
day  had  come.  Could  she  face  it  —  even  the  murky  grey 
light  of  this  that  revealed  the  ashes  and  litter  of  the  back 
yard  under  the  downpour?  The  act  of  dressing  brought 
a  slight  relief;  and  then,  at  breakfast,  a  numbness  stole 
over  her  —  suggested  and  conveyed,  perchance,  by  the 
apathy  of  her  mother.  Something  had  killed  suffering 
in  Hannah;  perhaps  she  herself  would  mercifully  lose  the 
power  to  suffer !  But  the  thought  made  her  shudder. 
She  could  not,  like  her  mother,  find  a  silly  refuge  in  shining 
dishes,  in  cleaning  pots  and  pans,  or  sit  idle,  vacant-minded, 
for  long  hours  in  a  spotless  kitchen.  WTiat  would 
happen  to  her?  .  .  .  Howbeit,  the  ache  that  had  tortured 
her  became  a  dull,  leaden  pain,  like  that  she  had  known 


396  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

at  another  time  —  how  long  ago  !  —  when  the  suffering 
caused  by  Ditmar's  deception  had  dulled,  when  she  had  sat 
in  the  train  on  her  way  back  to  Hampton  from  Boston, 
after  seeing  Lise.  The  pain  would  throb  again,  unsupport- 
ably,  and  she  would  wake,  and  this  time  it  would  drive  her 
—  she  knew  not  where. 

She  was  certain,  now,  that  the  presage  of  the  night  was 
true.  .  .  . 

She  reached  Franco-Belgian  Hall  to  find  it  in  an  uproar. 
Anna  Mower  ran  up  to  her  with  the  news  that  dynamite 
had  been  discovered  by  the  police  in  certain  tenements 
of  the  Syrian  quarter,  that  the  tenants  had  been  arrested 
and  taken  to  the  police  station  where,  bewildered  and  terri 
fied,  they  had  denied  any  knowledge  of  the  explosive.  Dyna 
mite  had  also  been  found  under  the  power  house,  and  in 
the  mills  —  the  sources  of  Hampton's  prosperity.  And 
Hampton  believed,  of  course,  that  this  was  the  inevitable 
result  of  the  anarchistic  preaching  of  such  enemies  of  society 
as  Jastro  and  Antonelli  —  if  these,  indeed,  had  not  incited 
the  Syrians  to  the  deed.  But  it  was  a  plot  of  the  mill-owners, 
Anna  insisted  —  they  themselves  had  planted  the  explosive, 
adroitly  started  the  rumours,  told  the  police  where  the  dyna 
mite  was  to  be  found.  Such  was  the  view  that  prevailed 
at  Headquarters,  pervaded  the  angrily  buzzing  crowd  that 
stood  outside  —  heedless  of  the  rain  —  and  animated  the 
stormy  conferences  in  the  Salle  de  Reunion. 

The  day  wore  on.  In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  as 
she  was  staring  out  of  the  window,  Anna  Mower  returned 
with  more  news.  Dynamite  had  been  discovered  in  Haw 
thorne  Street,  and  it  was  rumoured  that  Antonelli  and  Jastro 
were  to  be  arrested. 

"You  ought  to  go  home  and  rest,  Janet,"  she  said 
kindly. 

Janet  shook  her  head. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  397 

"Rolfe's  back,"  Anna  informed  her,  after  a  moment. 
"He's  talking  to  Antonelli  about  another  proclamation  to 
let  people  know  who's  to  blame  for  this  dynamite  business. 
I  guess  he'll  be  in  here  in  a  minute  to  dictate  the  draft. 
Say,  hadn't  you  better  let  Minnie  take  it,  and  go  home?" 

"I'm  not  sick,"  Janet  repeated,  and  Anna  reluctantly 
left  her. 

Rolfe  had  been  absent  for  a  week,  in  New  York,  consult 
ing  with  some  of  the  I.W.W.  leaders;  with  Lockhart, 
the  chief  protagonist  of  Syndicalism  in  America,  just  re 
turned  from  Colorado,  to  whom  he  had  given  a  detailed 
account  of  the  Hampton  strike.  And  Lockhart,  next  week, 
was  coming  to  Hampton  to  make  a  great  speech  and  look 
over  the  ground  for  himself.  All  this  Rolfe  told  Janet 
eagerly  when  he  entered  the  bibliotheque.  He  was  glad  to 
get  back ;  he  had  missed  her. 

"But  you  are  pale !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  seized  her  hand, 
"  and  how  your  eyes  burn !  You  do  not  take  care  of  your 
self  when  I  am  not  here  to  watch  you."  His  air  of  solici 
tude,  his  assumption  of  a  peculiar  right  to  ask,  might  formerly 
have  troubled  and  offended  her.  Now  she  was  scarcely 
aware  of  his  presence.  "You  feel  too  much  —  that  is  it  — 
you  are  like  a  torch  that  consumes  itself  in  burning.  But 
this  will  soon  be  over,  we  shall  have  them  on  then*  knees, 
the  capitalists,  before  very  long,  when  it  is  known  what 
they  have  done  to-day.  It  is  too  much  —  they  have  over 
reached  themselves  with  this  plot  of  the  dynamite.  .  .  . 
You  have  missed  me,  a  little?" 

"I  have  been  busy,"  she  said,  releasing  her  hand  and 
sitting  down  at  her  desk  and  taking  up  her  notebook. 

"You  are  not  well,"  he  insisted. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  replied. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  began  to  pace  the  room  —  his 
customary  manner  of  preparing  himself  for  the  creative 


398  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

mood.  After  a  while  he  began  to  dictate  —  but  haltingly. 
He  had  come  here  from  Antonelli  all  primed  with  fervour 
and  indignation,  but  it  was  evident  that  this  feeling  had 
ebbed,  that  his  mind  refused  to  concentrate  on  what  he  was 
saying.  Despite  the  magnificent  opportunity  to  flay  the 
capitalists  which  their  most  recent  tactics  afforded  him,  he 
paused,  repeated  himself,  and  began  again,  glancing  from 
time  to  time  reproachfully,  almost  resentfully  at  Janet. 
Usually,  on  these  occasions,  he  was  transported,  almost 
inebriated  by  his  own  eloquence ;  but  now  he  chafed  at  her 
listlessness,  he  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  withdrawal 
of  the  enthusiasm  he  had  formerly  been  able  to  arouse. 
Lacking  the  feminine  stimulus,  his  genius  limped.  For 
Rolfe  there  had  been  a  woman  in  every  strike  —  some 
times  two.  What  had  happened,  during  his  absence,  to 
alienate  the  most  promising  of  all  neophytes  he  had  ever 
encountered  ? 

"  The  eyes  of  the  world  are  fixed  on  the  workers  of  Hamp 
ton!  They  must  be  true  to  the  trust  their  fellows  have 
placed  in  them !  To-day  the  mill-owners,  the  masters,  are 
at  the  end  of  their  tether.  Always  unscrupulous,  they 
have  descended  to  the  most  despicable  of  tactics  in  order 
to  deceive  the  public.  But  truth  will  prevail !  .  .  . "  Rolfe 
lit  another  cigarette,  began  a  new  sentence  and  broke  it  off. 
Suddenly  he  stood  over  her.  "It's  you!"  he  said.  "You 
don't  feel  it,  you  don't  help  me,  you're  not  in  sympathy." 

He  bent  over  her,  his  red  lips  gleaming  through  his  beard, 
a  terrible  hunger  in  his  lustrous  eyes  —  the  eyes  of  a  soul 
to  which  self-denial  was  unknown.  His  voice  was  thick 
with  uncontrolled  passion,  his  hand  was  cold. 

"  Janet,  what  has  happened  ?  I  love  you,  you  must  love 
me  —  I  cannot  believe  that  you  do  not.  Come  with  me. 
We  shall  work  together  for  the  workers  —  it  is  all  nothing 
without  you." 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  399 

For  a  moment  she  sat  still,  and  then  a  pain  shot  through 
her,  a  pain  as  sharp  as  a  dagger  thrust.  She  drew  her  hand 
away. 

"I  can't  love  —  I  can  only  hate,"  she  said. 

"But  you  do  not  hate  me!"  Rolfe  repudiated  so  gross 
a  fact.  His  voice  caught  as  in  a  sob.  "I,  who  love  you, 
who  have  taught  you!" 

She  dismissed  this  —  what  he  had  taught  her  —  with  a 
gesture  which,  though  slight,  was  all-expressive.  He  drew 
back  from  her. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  who  has  planned  and  carried  out  this 
plot?"  he  cried.  "It  is  Ditmar.  He  is  the  one,  and  he 
used  Janes,  the  livery  stable  keeper,  the  politician  who 
brought  the  dynamite  to  Hampton,  as  his  tool.  Half  an 
hour  before  Janes  got  to  the  station  in  Boston  he  was  seen 
by  a  friend  of  ours  talking  to  Ditmar  in  front  of  the  Chip- 
pering  offices,  and  Janes  had  the  satchel  with  him  then. 
Ditmar  walked  to  the  corner  with  him." 

Janet,  too,  had  risen. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  I  thought  you  wouldn't !  But  we  have  the  proof 
that  dynamite  was  in  the  satchel,  we've  found  the  contractor 
from  whom  it  was  bought.  I  was  a  fool  —  I  might  have 
known  that  you  loved  Ditmar." 

"I  hate  him!"  said  Janet. 

"It  is  the  same  thing,"  said  Rolfe. 

She  did  not  answer.  .  .  .  He  watched  her  hi  silence  as 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and  left  the  room. 


The  early  dusk  was  gathering  when  she  left  the  hall  and 
made  her  way  toward  the  city.  The  huge  bottle-shaped 
chimneys  of  the  power  plant  injected  heavy  black  smoke 


400  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

into  the  wet  air.  In  Faber  Street  the  once  brilliant  signs 
above  the  "ten-foot"  buildings  seemed  dulled,  the  telegraph 
poles  starker,  nakeder  than  ever,  their  wires  scarcely  dis 
cernible  against  the  smeared  sky.  The  pedestrians  were 
sombrely  garbed,  and  went  about  in  "rubbers" — the 
most  depressing  of  all  articles  worn  by  man.  Sodden  piles 
of  snow  still  hid  the  curb  and  gutters,  but  the  pavements 
were  trailed  with  mud  that  gleamed  in  the  light  from  the 
shop  windows.  And  Janet,  lingering  unconsciously  in 
front  of  that  very  emporium  where  Lise  had  been  incar 
cerated,  the  Bagatelle,  stared  at  the  finery  displayed  there, 
at  the  blue  tulle  dress  that  might  be  purchased,  she  read, 
for  $22.99.  She  found  herself  repeating,  in  meaningless, 
subdued  tones,  the  words,  "  twenty-two  ninety-nine."  She 
even  tried  —  just  to  see  if  it  were  possible  —  to  concentrate 
her  mind  on  that  dress,  on  the  fur  muffs  and  tippets  in 
the  next  window ;  to  act  as  if  this  were  just  an  ordinary, 
sad  February  afternoon,  and  she  herself  once  more  just 
an  ordinary  stenographer  leading  a  monotonous,  unevent 
ful  existence.  But  she  knew  that  this  was  not  true,  because, 
later  on,  she  was  going  to  do  something  —  to  commit  some 
act.  She  didn't  know  what  this  act  would  be.  Her  head 
was  hot,  her  temples  throbbed.  .  .  . 

Night  had  fallen,  the  electric  arcs  burned  blue  over 
head,  she  was  in  another  street  —  was  it  Stanley  ?  Sounds 
of  music  reached  her,  the  rumble  of  marching  feet;  dark, 
massed  figures  were  in  the  distance  swimming  toward  her 
along  the  glistening  line  of  the  car  tracks,  and  she  heard 
the  shrill  whistling  of  the  doffer  boys,  who  acted  as  a  sort 
of  fife  corps  in  these  parades  —  which  by  this  time  had 
become  familiar  to  the  citizens  of  Hampton.  And  Janet 
remembered  when  the  little  red  book  that  contained  the 
songs  had  arrived  at  Headquarters  from  the  west  and  had 
been  distributed  by  thousands  among  the  strikers.  She 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  401 

recalled  the  words  of  this  song,  though  the  procession  was 
as  yet  too  far  away  for  her  to  distinguish  them  :  — 

"The  People's  flag  is  deepest  red, 
It  shrouded  oft  our  martyred  dead, 
And  ere  their  limbs  grew  stiff  and  cold, 
Their  life-blood  dyed  its  every  fold." 

The  song  ceased,  and  she  stood  still,  waiting  for  the  pro 
cession  to  reach  her.  A  group  of  heavy  Belgian  women 
were  marching  together.  Suddenly,  as  by  a  simultaneous 
impulse,  their  voices  rang  out  in  the  Internationale  —  the 
terrible  Marseillaise  of  the  workers :  — 

"Arise,  ye  prisoners  of  starvation ! 
Arise,  ye  wretched  of  the  earth !" 

And  the  refrain  was  taken  up  by  hundreds  of  throats :  — 

"Tis  the  final  conflict, 
Let  each  stand  in  his  place ! "  .  .  . 

The  walls  of  the  street  flung  it  back.  On  the  sidewalk, 
pressed  against  the  houses,  men  and  women  heard  it  with 
white  faces.  But  Janet  was  carried  on.  .  .  .  The  scene 
changed,  now  she  was  gazing  at  a  mass  of  human  beings 
hemmed  in  by  a  line  of  soldiers.  Behind  the  crowd  was 
a  row  of  old-fashioned  brick  houses,  on  the  walls  of  which 
were  patterned,  by  the  cold  electric  light,  the  branches  of 
the  bare  elms  ranged  along  the  sidewalk.  People  leaned 
out  of  the  windows,  like  theatregoers  at  a  play.  The  light 
illuminated  the  red  and  white  bars  of  the  ensign,  upheld 
by  the  standard  bearer  of  the  regiment,  the  smaller  flags 
flaunted  by  the  strikers  —  each  side  clinging  hardily  to  the 
emblem  of  human  liberty.  The  light  fell,  too,  harshly  and 
brilliantly,  on  the  workers  hi  the  front  rank  confronting  the 
bayonets,  and  these  seemed  strangely  indifferent,  as  though 
waiting  for  the  flash  of  a  photograph.  A  little  farther  on 


402  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

a  group  of  boys,  hands  in  pockets,  stared  at  the  soldiers 
with  bravado.  From  the  rear  came  that  indescribable 
"booing"  which  those  who  have  heard  never  forget,  mingled 
with  curses  and  cries  :  - 

"Vive  la  greve!" 

"To  hell  with  the  Cossacks!" 

"Kahm  on  —  shoot!" 

The  backs  of  the  soldiers,  determined,  unyielding,  were 
covered  with  heavy  brown  capes  that  fell  below  the  waist. 
As  Janet's  glance  wandered  down  the  line  it  was  arrested 
by  the  face  of  a  man  in  a  visored  woollen  cap  —  a  face  that 
was  almost  sepia,  in  which  large  white  eyeballs  struck  a 
note  of  hatred.  And  what  she  seemed  to  see  in  it,  con 
fronting  her,  were  the  hatred  and  despair  of  her  own  soul ! 
The  man  might  have  been  a  Hungarian  or  a  Pole ;  the  breadth 
of  his  chin  was  accentuated  by  a  wide,  black  moustache,  his 
attitude  was  tense,  —  that  of  a  maddened  beast  ready  to 
spring  at  the  soldier  in  front  of  him.  He  was  plainly  one 
of  those  who  had  reached  the  mental  limit  of  endurance. 

In  contrast  with  this  foreigner,  confronting  him,  a  young 
lieutenant  stood  motionless,  his  head  cocked  on  one  side, 
his  hand  grasping  the  club  held  a  little  behind  him,  his 
glance  meeting  the  other's  squarely,  but  with  a  different 
quality  of  defiance.  All  his  faculties  were  on  the  alert. 
He  wore  no  overcoat,  and  the  uniform  fitting  close  to  his 
figure,  the  broad-brimmed  campaign  hat  of  felt  served  to 
bring  into  relief  the  physical  characteristics  of  the  American 
Anglo-Saxon,  of  the  individualist  who  became  the  fighting 
pioneer.  But  Janet,  save  to  register  the  presence  of  the 
intense  antagonism  between  the  two,  scarcely  noticed  her 
fellow  countryman.  .  .  .  Every  moment  she  expected  to 
see  the  black  man  spring,  —  and  yet  movement  would  have 
marred  the  drama  of  that  consuming  hatred.  .  .  . 

Then,  by  one  of  those  bewildering,  kaleidoscopic  shifts 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  403 

to  which  crowds  are  subject,  the  scene  changed,  more  troops 
arrived,  little  by  little  the  people  were  dispersed  to  drift 
together  again  by  chance  —  in  smaller  numbers  —  several 
blocks  away.  Perhaps  a  hundred  and  fifty  were  scattered 
over  the  space  formed  by  the  intersection  of  two  streets, 
where  three  or  four  special  policemen  with  night  sticks 
urged  them  on.  Not  a  riot,  or  anything  approaching  it. 
The  police  were  jeered,  but  the  groups,  apparently,  had 
already  begun  to  scatter,  when  from  the  triangular  ves 
tibule  of  a  saloon  on  the  corner  darted  a  flame  followed  by 
an  echoing  report,  a  woman  bundled  up  in  a  shawl  screamed 
and  sank  on  the  snow.  For  an  instant  the  little  French- 
Canadian  policeman  whom  the  shot  had  missed  gazed  stupidly 
down  at  her.  . 


As  Janet  ran  along  the  dark  pavements  the  sound  of  the 
shot  and  of  the  woman's  shriek  continued  to  ring  in  her 
ears.  At  last  she  stopped  in  front  of  the  warehouse  beyond 
Mr.  Tiernan's  shop,  staring  at  the  darkened  windows  of  the 
flat — of  the  front  room  in  which  her  mother  now  slept  alone. 
For  a  minute  she  stood  looking  at  these  windows,  as  though 
hypnotized  by  some  message  they  conveyed  —  the  answer 
to  a  question  suggested  by  the  incident  that  had  aroused 
and  terrified  her.  They  drew  her,  as  in  a  trance,  across 
the  street,  she  opened  the  glass-panelled  door,  remember 
ing  mechanically  the  trick  it  had  of  not  quite  closing,  turned 
and  pushed  it  to  and  climbed  the  stairs.  In  the  dining- 
room  the  metal  lamp,  brightly  polished,  was  burning  as 
usual,  its  light  falling  on  the  chequered  red  table-cloth,  on 
her  father's  empty  chair,  on  that  somewhat  battered  heir 
loom,  the  horsehair  sofa.  All  was  so  familiar,  and  yet  so 
amazingly  unfamiliar,  so  silent !  At  this  time  Edward 
should  be  reading  the  Banner,  her  mother  bustling  in  and 


404  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

out,  setting  the  table  for  supper.  But  not  a  dish  was  set. 
The  ticking  of  the  ancient  clock  only  served  to  intensify 
the  silence.  Janet  entered,  almost  on  tiptoe,  made  her  way 
to  the  kitchen  door,  and  looked  in.  The  stove  was  polished, 
the  pans  bright  upon  the  wall,  and  Hannah  was  seated  in 
a  corner,  her  hands  folded  across  a  spotless  apron.  Her 
scant  hair  was  now  pure  white,  her  dress  seemed  to  have 
fallen  away  from  her  wasted  neck,  which  was  like  a  trefoil 
column. 

"Is  that  you,  Janet?  You  hain't  seen  anything  of  your 
father?" 

The  night  before  Janet  had  heard  this  question,  and  she 
had  been  puzzled  as  to  its  meaning  —  whether  in  the  course 
of  the  day  she  had  seen  her  father,  or  whether  Hannah 
thought  he  was  coming  home. 

"He's  at  the  mill,  mother.  You  know  he  has  to  stay 
there." 

"I  know,"  replied  Hannah,  in  a  tone  faintly  reminiscent 
of  the  old  aspersion.  "But  I've  got  everything  ready  for 
him  in  case  he  should  come  —  any  time  —  if  the  strikers 
hain't  killed  him." 

"But  he's  safe  where  he  is." 

"I  presume  they  will  try  to  kill  him,  before  they  get 
through,"  Hannah  continued  evenly.  "  But  in  case  he  should 
come  at  any  time,  and  I'm  not  here,  you  tell  him  all  those 
Bumpus  papers  are  put  away  in  the  drawer  of  that  old  chest, 
in  the  corner.  I  can't  think  what  he'd  do  without  those 
papers.  That  is,"  she  added,  "if  you're  here  yourself." 

"  Why  shouldn't  you  be  here  ?  "  asked  Janet,  rather  sharply. 

"I  dunno,  I  seem  to  have  got  through."  She  glanced 
helplessly  around  the  kitchen.  "There  don't  seem  to  be 
much  left  to  keep  me  alive.  ...  I  guess  you'll  be  wanting 
your  supper,  won't  you  ?  You  hain't  often  home  these  days 
—  whatever  it  is  you're  doing.  I  didn't  expect  you." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  405 

Janet  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"I  —  I  have  to  go  out  again,  mother,"  she  said. 

Hannah  accepted  the  answer  as  she  had  accepted  every 
other  negative  in  life,  great  and  small. 

"Well,  I  guessed  you  would." 

Janet  made  a  step  toward  her. 

"Mother !"  she  said,  but  Hannah  gazed  at  her  uncompre- 
hendingly.  Janet  stooped  convulsively,  and  kissed  her. 
Straightening  up,  she  stood  looking  down  at  her  mother  for 
a  few  moments,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  pausing  in  the 
dining-room,  to  listen,  but  Hannah  apparently  had  not  stirred. 
She  took  the  box  of  matches  from  its  accustomed  place 
on  the  shelf  beside  the  clock,  entered  the  dark  bedroom 
in  the  front  of  the  flat,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  her. 
The  ghostly  blue  light  from  a  distant  arc  came  slanting 
in  at  the  window,  glinting  on  the  brass  knobs  of  the 
chest  of  drawers  —  another  Bumpus  heirloom.  She  re 
membered  that  chest  from  early  childhood;  it  was  one  of 
the  few  pieces  that,  following  them  in  all  their  changes  of 
residence,  had  been  faithful  to  the  end :  she  knew  every 
thing  in  it,  and  the  place  for  everything.  Drawing  a  match 
from  the  box,  she  was  about  to  turn  on  the  gas  —  but  the 
light  from  the  arc  would  suffice.  As  she  made  her  way 
around  the  walnut  bed  she  had  a  premonition  of  poignant 
anguish  as  yet  unrealized,  of  anguish  being  held  at  bay  by 
a  stronger,  fiercer,  more  imperative  emotion  now  demanding 
expression,  refusing  at  last  to  be  denied.  She  opened  the 
top  drawer  of  the  chest,  the  drawer  in  which  Hannah,  break 
ing  tradition,  had  put  the  Bumpus  genealogy.  Edward  had 
never  kept  it  there.  Would  the  other  things  be  in  place? 
Groping  with  her  hands  in  the  left-hand  corner,  her  fingers 
clasped  exultantly  something  heavy,  something  wrapped 
carefully  in  layers  of  flannel.  She  had  feared  her  father 
might  have  taken  it  to  the  mill !  She  drew  it  out,  unwound 


406  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

the  flannel,  and  held  to  the  light  an  old-fashioned  revolver, 
the  grease  glistening  along  its  barrel.  She  remembered, 
too,  that  the  cartridges  had  lain  beside  it,  and  thrusting 
her  hand  once  more  into  the  drawer  found  the  box,  extract 
ing  several,  and  replacing  the  rest,  closed  the  drawer,  and 
crept  through  the  dining-room  to  her  bedroom,  where  she  lit 
the  gas  in  order  to  examine  the  weapon  —  finally  contriving, 
more  by  accident  than  skill,  to  break  it.  The  cartridges, 
of  course,  fitted  into  the  empty  cylinder.  But  before  in 
serting  them  she  closed  the  pistol  once  more,  cocked  it,  and 
held  it  out.  Her  arm  trembled  violently  as  she  pulled 
the  trigger.  Could  she  do  it?  As  though  to  refute  this 
doubt  of  her  ability  to  carry  out  an  act  determined  upon, 
she  broke  the  weapon  once  more,  loaded  and  closed  it, 
and  thrust  it  in  the  pocket  of  her  coat.  Then,  wash 
ing  the  grease  from  her  hands,  she  put  on  her  gloves, 
and  was  about  to  turn  out  the  light  when  she  saw  reflected 
in  the  glass  the  red  button  of  the  I.W.W.  still  pinned 
on  her  coat.  This  she  tore  off,  and  flung  on  the 
bureau. 

When  she  had  kissed  her  mother,  when  she  had  stood 
hesitatingly  in  the  darkness  of  the  familiar  front  bedroom 
in  the  presence  of  unsummoned  memories  of  a  home  she  had 
believed  herself  to  resent  and  despise,  she  had  nearly  faltered. 
But  once  in  the  street,  this  weakness  suddenly  vanished, 
was  replaced  by  a  sense  of  wrong  that  now  took  complete 
and  furious  possession  of  her,  driving  her  like  a  gale  at  her 
back.  She  scarcely  felt  on  her  face  the  fine  rain  that  had 
begun  to  fall  once  more.  Her  feet  were  accustomed  to 
the  way.  When  she  had  turned  down  West  Street  and  almost 
gained  the  canal,  it  was  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  she 
found  herself  confronted  by  a  man  in  a  long  cape  who  held 
a  rifle  and  barred  her  path.  She  stared  at  him  as  at  an 
apparition. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  407 

"You  can't  get  by  here,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  know 
that?" 

She  did  not  reply.  He  continued  to  look  at  her,  and 
presently  asked,  in  a  gentler  tone :  — 

"Where  did  you  wish  to  go,  lady?" 

"Into  the  mill,"  she  replied,  "to  the  offices." 

"But  there  can't  anybody  go  through  here  unless  they 
have  a  pass.  I'm  sorry,  but  that's  the  order." 

Her  answer  came  so  readily  as  to  surprise  her. 

"I  was  Mr.  Ditmar's  private  stenographer.  I  have  to 
see  him." 

The  sentry  hesitated,  and  then  addressed  another  soldier, 
who  was  near  the  bridge. 

"Hi,  sergeant!"  he  called.  The  sergeant  came  up  —  a 
conscientious  Boston  clerk  who  had  joined  the  militia  from 
a  sense  of  duty  and  a  need  for  exercise.  W7hile  the  sentry 
explained  the  matter  he  gazed  at  Janet.  Then  he  said 
politely :  — 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss,  but  I  can't  disobey  orders." 

"But  can't  you  send  word  to  Mr.  Ditmar,  and  tell  him 
I  want  to  see  him?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  I  guess  so,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment.  " WTiat 
name  shall  I  say?" 

"Miss  Bumpus." 

"Bumpus,"     he    repeated.       "That's    the     gatekeeper's 


,, 
name. 


"I'm  his  daughter  —  but  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Ditmar." 
"Well,"  said  the  sergeant,  "I'm  sure  it's  all  right,  but 
I'll   have   to   send   in   anyway.     Orders   are   orders.     You 
understand?" 

She  nodded  as  he  departed.  She  saw  him  cross  the  bridge 
like  a  ghost  through  the  white  mist  rising  from  the  canal. 
And  through  the  mist  she  could  make  out  the  fortress- 
like  mass  of  the  mill  itself,  and  the  blurred,  distorted 


408  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

lights  in  the  paymaster's  offices  smeared  on  the  white 
curtain  of  the  vapour. 

"  Nasty  weather/'  the  sentry  remarked,  in  friendly  fashion. 
He  appeared  now,  despite  his  uniform,  as  a  good-natured, 
ungainly  youth. 

Janet  nodded. 

"You'd  ought  to  have  brought  an  umbrella,"  he  said. 
"I  guess  it'll  rain  harder,  before  it  gets  through.  But  it's 
better  than  ten  below  zero,  anyhow." 

She  nodded  again,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  resent  her 
silence.  He  talked  about  the  hardship  of  patrolling  in  winter, 
until  the  sergeant  came  back. 

"It's  all  right,  Miss  Bumpus,"  he  said,  and  touched  his 
hat  as  he  escorted  her  to  the  bridge.  She  crossed  the  canal 
and  w^ent  through  the  vestibule  without  replying  to  the 
greeting  of  the  night-watchman,  or  noticing  his  curious 
glance ;  she  climbed  the  steel-clad  stairway,  passed  the  pay 
master's  offices  and  Mr.  Orcutt's,  and  gained  the  outer 
office  where  she  had  worked  as  a  stenographer.  It  was 
dark,  but  sufficient  light  came  through  Ditmar's  open  door 
to  guide  her  beside  the  rail.  He  had  heard  her  step, 
and  as  she  entered  his  room  he  had  put  his  hands  heavily 
on  his  desk,  in  the  act  of  rising  from  his  chair. 

"Janet!"  he  said,  and  started  toward  her,  but  got  no 
farther  than  the  corner  of  the  desk.  The  sight  of  her  heaving 
breast,  of  the  peculiar  light  that  flashed  from  beneath  her 
lashes  stopped  him  suddenly.  Her  hands  were  in  her  pockets. 
"What  is  it?"  he  demanded  stupidly. 

But  she  continued  to  stand  there,  breathing  so  heavily 
that  she  could  not  speak.  It  was  then  that  he  became 
aware  of  an  acute  danger.  He  did  not  flinch. 

"What  is  it?"  he  repeated. 

Still  she  was  silent.  One  hand  was  thrust  deeper  into 
its  pocket,  he  saw  a  shudder  run  through  her,  and  suddenly 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  409 

she  burst  into  hysterical  weeping,  sinking  into  a  chair. 
He  stood  for  some  moments  helplessly  regarding  her  before 
he  gained  the  presence  of  mind  to  go  to  the  door  and  lock 
it,  returning  to  bend  over  her. 

"Don't  touch  me !"  she  said,  shrinking  from  him. 

"For  God's  sake  tell  me  what's  the  matter,"  he  begged. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  tried  to  speak,  struggling  against 
the  sobs  that  shook  her. 

"I  —  I  came  here  to  —  to  kill  you  —  only  I  can't  do  it." 

"To  kill  me!"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  In  spite  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  half  divined  her  intention,  the  words  shocked 
him.  Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  him,  he  did  not  lack 
courage,  his  alarm  was  not  of  a  physical  nature.  Mingled 
with  it  were  emotions  he  himself  did  not  understand,  caused 
by  the  unwonted  sight  of  her  loss  of  self-control,  of  her  anger, 
and  despair.  "  Why  did  you  want  to  kill  me  ?  " 

And  again  he  had  to  wait  for  an  answer. 

"  Because  you've  spoiled  my  life  —  because  I'm  going  to 
have  a  child !" 

"What  do  you  mean?    Are  you?  ...  it  can't  be  possible." 

"It  is  possible,  it's  true  —  it's  true.  I've  waited  and 
waited,  I've  suffered,  I've  almost  gone  crazy  —  and  now 
I  know.  And  I  said  I'd  kill  you  if  it  were  so,  I'd  kill  myself 
—  only  I  can't.  I'm  a  coward."  Her  voice  was  drowned 
again  by  weeping. 

A  child !  He  had  never  imagined  such  a  contingency ! 
And  as  he  leaned  back  against  the  desk,  his  emotions  be 
came  chaotic.  The  sight  of  her,  even  as  she  appeared 
crazed  by  anger,  had  set  his  passion  aflame  —  for  the  in 
tensity  and  fierceness  of  her  nature  had  always  made  a 
strong  appeal  to  dominant  qualities  in  Ditmar's  nature. 
And  then  —  this  announcement!  Momentarily  it  turned 
his  heart  to  water.  Now  that  he  was  confronted  by  an 
exigency  that  had  once  vicariously  yet  deeply  disturbed  him 


410  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

in  a  similar  affair  of  a  friend  of  his,  the  code  and  habit  of 
a  lifetime  gained  an  immediate  ascendency  —  since  then  he 
had  insisted  that  this  particular  situation  was  to  be  avoided 
above  all  others.  And  his  mind  leaped  to  possibilities. 
She  had  wished  to  kill  him  —  would  she  remain  desperate 
enough  to  ruin  him?  Even  though  he  were  not  at  a  crisis 
in  his  affairs,  a  scandal  of  this  kind  would  be  fatal. 

"I  didn't  know,"  he  said  desperately,  "I  couldn't  guess. 
Do  you  think  I  would  have  had  this  thing  happen  to  you? 
I  was  carried  away  —  we  were  both  carried  away — " 

"You  planned  it !"  she  replied  vehemently,  without  look 
ing  up.  "You  didn't  care  for  me,  you  only  —  wanted  me." 

"  That  isn't  so  —  I  swear  that  isn't  so.  I  loved  you  — 
I  love  you." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  I  believe  that?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  swear  it  —  I'll  prove  it ! "  he  protested.  Still  under 
the  influence  of  an  acute  anxiety,  he  was  finding  it  difficult 
to  gather  his  wits,  to  present  his  case.  "When  you  left 
me  that  day  the  strike  began  —  when  you  left  me  without 
giving  me  a  chance  —  you'll  never  know  how  that  hurt  me." 

"You'll  never  know  how  it  hurt  me!"  she  interrupted. 

"Then  why,  in  God's  name,  did  you  do  it?  I  wasn't 
myself,  then,  you  ought  to  have  seen  that.  And  when  I 

heard  from  Caldwell  here  that  you'd  joined  those  anarchists 

» 

"  They're  no  worse  than  you  are  —  they  only  want  what 
you've  got,"  she  said. 

He  waved  this  aside.  "  I  couldn't  believe  it  —  I  wouldn't 
believe  it  until  somebody  saw  you  walking  with  one  of  them 
to  their  Headquarters.  Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Because  I  know  how  they  feel,  I  sympathize  with  the 
strikers,  I  want  them  to  win  —  against  you ! "  She  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  at  him,  and  in  spite  of  the  state  of  his 
feelings  he  felt  a  twinge  of  admiration  at  her  defiance. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  411 

"Because  you  love  me !"  he  said. 

"  Because  I  hate  you/'  she  answered. 

And  yet  a  spark  of  exultation  leaped  within  him  at  the 
thought  that  love  had  caused  this  apostasy.  He  had  had 
that  suspicion  before,  though  it  was  a  poor  consolation 
when  he  could  not  reach  her.  Now  she  had  made  it  vivid. 
A  woman's  logic,  or  lack  of  logic  —  her  logic. 

"Listen!"  he  pleaded.  "I  tried  to  forget  you  —  I  tried 
to  keep  myself  going  all  the  time  that  I  mightn't  think  of 
you,  but  I  couldn't  help  thinking  of  you,  wanting  you,  long 
ing  for  you.  I  never  knew  why  you  left  me,  except  that 
you  seemed  to  believe  I  was  unkind  to  you,  and  that  some 
thing  had  happened.  It  wasn't  my  fault — "  he  pulled 
himself  up  abruptly. 

"I  found  out  what  men  were  like,"  she  said.  "A  man 
made  my  sister  a  woman  of  the  streets  —  that's  what  you've 
done  to  me." 

He  winced.  And  the  calmness  she  had  regained,  which 
was  so  characteristic  of  her,  struck  him  with  a  new  fear. 

"  I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  man,"  he  said. 

But  she  did  not  answer.  His  predicament  became  more 
trying. 

"I'll  take  care  of  you,"  he  assured  her,  after  a  moment. 
"If  you'll  only  trust  me,  if  you'll  only  come  to  me  I'll  see 
that  no  harm  comes  to  you." 

She  regarded  him  with  a  sort  of  wonder  —  a  look  that 
put  a  fine  edge  of  dignity  and  scorn  to  her  words  when  they 
came. 

"  I  told  you  I  didn't  want  to  be  taken  care  of  —  I  wanted 
to  kill  you,  and  kill  myself.  I  don't  know  why  I  can't  — 
what  prevents  me."  She  rose.  "But  I'm  not  going  to 
trouble  you  any  more  —  you'll  never  hear  of  me  again." 

She  would  not  trouble  him,  she  was  going  away,  he  would 
never  hear  of  her  again!  Suddenly,  with  the  surge  of  re- 


412  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

lief  he  experienced,  came  a  pang.  He  could  not  let  her  go 
—  it  was  impossible.  It  seemed  that  he  had  never  under 
stood  his  need  of  her,  his  love  for  her,  until  now  that  he  had 
brought  her  to  this  supreme  test  of  self-revelation.  She 
had  wanted  to  kill  him,  yes,  to  kill  herself  —  but  how 
could  he  ever  have  believed  that  she  would  stoop  to  another 
method  of  retaliation?  As  she  stood  before  him  the  light 
in  her  eyes — still  wet  with  tears — transfigured  her. 

"  I  love  you,  Janet,"  he  said.     "  I  want  you  to  marry  me." 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  answered.  "You  never 
did.  If  I  had  married  you,  I'd  feel  just  the  same  —  but 
it  isn't  really  as  bad  as  if  we  had  been  married." 

"Not  as  bad!"  he  exclaimed. 

"If  we  were  married,  you'd  think  you  had  rights  over  me.," 
she  explained,  slowly.  "Now  you  haven't  any,  I  can  go 
away.  I  couldn't  live  with  you.  I  know  what  happened 
to  me,  I've  thought  it  all  out,  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  the 
life  I  was  leading  —  I  hated  it  so,  I  was  crazy  to  have  a 
chance,  to  see  the  world,  to  get  nearer  some  of  the  beautiful 
things  I  knew  were  there,  but  couldn't  reach.  .  .  .  And  you 
came  along.  I  did  love  you,  I  would  have  done  anything 
for  you  —  it  was  only  when  I  saw  that  you  didn't  really 
love  me  that  I  began  to  hate  you,  that  I  wanted  to  get  away 
from  you,  when  I  saw  that  you  only  wanted  me  until  you 
should  get  tired  of  me.  That's  your  nature,  you  can't  help 
it.  And  it  would  have  been  the  same  if  we  were  married, 
only  worse,  I  couldn't  have  stood  it  any  more  than  I  can 
now  —  I'd  have  left  you.  You  say  you'll  marry  me  now, 
but  that's  because  you're  sorry  for  me  —  since  I've  said 
I'm  not  going  to  trouble  you  any  more.  You'll  be  glad  I've 
gone.  You  may  —  want  me  now,  but  that  isn't  love. 
When  you  say  you  love  me,  I  can't  believe  you." 

"You  must  believe  me!  And  the  child,  Janet,  —  our 
child!" 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  413 

"If  the  world  was  right/'  she  said,  "I  could  have  this 
child  and  nobody  would  say  anything.  I  could  support  it 
—  I  guess  I  can  anyway.  And  when  I'm  not  half  crazy  I 
want  it.  Maybe  that's  the  reason  I  couldn't  do  what  I 
tried  to  do  just  now.  It's  natural  for  a  woman  to  want  a 
child  —  especially  a  woman  like  me,  who  hasn't  anybody 
or  anything." 

Ditmar's  state  of  mind  was  too  complicated  to  be  wholly 
described.  As  the  fact  had  been  gradually  brought  home 
to  him  that  she  had  not  come  as  a  supplicant,  that  even 
in  her  misery  she  was  free,  and  he  helpless,  there  revived 
in  him  wild  memories  of  her  body,  of  the  kisses  he  had 
wrung  from  her  —  and  yet  this  physical  desire  was  accom 
panied  by  a  realization  of  her  personality  never  before 
achieved.  And  because  he  had  hitherto  failed  to  achieve 
it,  she  had  escaped  him.  This  belated,  surpassing  glimpse 
of  what  she  essentially  was,  and  the  thought  of  the  child  — 
their  child  —  permeating  his  passion,  transformed  it  into 
a  feeling  hitherto  unexperienced  and  unimagined.  He 
hovered  over  her,  pitifully,  his  hands  feeling  for  her,  yet 
not  daring  to  touch  her. 

"Can't  you  see  that  I  love  you?"  he  cried,  "that  I'm 
ready  to  marry  you  now,  to-night.  You  must  love  me,  I 
won't  believe  that  you  don't  after  —  after  all  we  have  been 
to  each  other." 

But  even  then  she  could  not  believe.  Something  in  her, 
made  hard  by  the  intensity  of  her  suffering,  refused  to  melt. 
And  her  head  was  throbbing,  and  she  scarcely  heard  him. 

"I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  she  said,  getting  to  her  feet. 
"I  can't  bear  it." 

"Janet,  I  swear  I'll  care  for  you  as  no  woman  was  ever 
cared  for.  For  God's  sake  listen  to  me,  give  me  a  chance, 
forgive  me!"  He  seized  her  arm;  she  struggled,  gently 
but  persistently,  to  free  herself  from  his  hold. 


414  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Let  me  go,  please."  All  the  passionate  anger  had 
gone  out  of  her,  and  she  spoke  in  a  monotone,  as  one  under 
hypnosis,  dominated  by  a  resolution  which,  for  the  present 
at  least,  he  was  powerless  to  shake. 

"But  to-morrow?"  he  pleaded.  "You'll  let  me  see  you 
to-morrow,  when  you've  had  time  to  think  it  over,  when 
you  realize  that  I  love  you  and  want  you,  that  I  haven't 
meant  to  be  cruel  —  that  you've  misjudged  me  —  thought 
I  was  a  different  kind  of  a  man.  I  don't  blame  you  for  that, 
I  guess  something  happened  to  make  you  believe  it.  I've 
got  enemies.  For  the  sake  of  the  child,  Janet,  if  for  nothing 
else,  you'll  come  back  to  me!  You're  —  you're  tired  to 
night,  you're  not  yourself.  I  don't  wonder,  after  all  you've 
been  through.  If  you'd  only  come  to  me  before !  God 
knows  what  I've  suffered,  too !" 

"Let  me  go,  please,"  she  repeated,  and  this  time,  de 
spairingly,  he  obeyed  her,  a  conviction  of  her  incommu- 
nicability  overwhelming  him.  He  turned  and,  fumbling 
with  the  key,  unlocked  the  door  and  opened  it.  "I'll  see 
you  to-morrow,"  he  faltered  once  more,  and  watched  her  as 
she  went  through  the  darkened  outer  room  until  she  gained 
the  lighted  hallway  beyond  and  disappeared.  Her  foot 
steps  died  away  into  silence.  He  was  trembling.  For 
several  minutes  he  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  tortured 
by  a  sense  of  his  inability  to  act,  to  cope  with  this,  the  great 
crisis  of  his  life,  when  suddenly  the  real  significance  of  that 
strange  last  look  in  her  eyes  was  borne  home  to  him.  And 
he  had  allowed  her  to  go  out  into  the  streets  alone  !  Seizing 
his  hat  and  coat,  he  fairly  ran  out  of  the  office  and  down 
the  stairs  and  across  the  bridge. 

"Which  way  did  that  young  lady  go?"  he  demanded  of 
the  sergeant. 

"Why  — up  West  Street,  Mr.  Ditmar." 

He   remembered   where   Fillmore  Street   was;    he  had, 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  415 

indeed,  sought  it  out  one  evening  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her. 
He  hurried  toward  it  now,  his  glance  strained  ahead  to  catch 
sight  of  her  figure  under  a  lamp.  But  he  reached  Fillmore 
Street  without  overtaking  her,  and  in  the  rain  he  stood 
gazing  at  the  mean  houses  there,  wondering  in  which  of  them 
she  lived,  and  whether  she  had  as  yet  come  home. . . . 


After  leaving  Ditmar  Janet,  probably  from  force  of  habit, 
had  indeed  gone  through  West  Street,  and  after  that  she 
walked  on  aimlessly.  It  was  better  to  walk  than  to  sit 
alone  in  torment,  to  be  gnawed  by  that  Thing  from  which 
she  had  so  desperately  attempted  to  escape,  and  failed. 
She  tried  to  think  why  she  had  failed.  .  .  .  Though 
the  rain  fell  on  her  cheeks,  her  mouth  was  parched ;  and 
this  dryness  of  her  palate,  this  physical  sense  of  lightness, 
almost  of  dizziness,  were  intimately  yet  incomprehensibly 
part  and  parcel  of  the  fantastic  moods  into  which  she  floated. 
It  was  as  though,  in  trying  to  solve  a  problem,  she  caught 
herself  from  time  to  tune  falling  off  to  sleep.  In  her  waking 
moments  she  was  terror-stricken.  Scarce  an  hour  had  passed 
since,  in  a  terrible  exaltation  at  having  found  a  solution, 
she  had  gone  to  Ditmar's  office  in  the  mill.  What  had 
happened  to  stay  her?  It  was  when  she  tried  to  find  the 
cause  of  the  weakness  that  so  abruptly  had  overtaken  her, 
or  to  cast  about  for  a  plan  to  fit  the  new  predicament  to 
which  her  failure  had  sentenced  her,  that  the  fantasies  in 
truded.  She  heard  Ditmar  speaking,  the  arguments  were 
curiously  familiar  —  but  they  wrere  not  Ditmar's !  They 
were  her  father's,  and  now  it  was  Edward's  voice  to  which 
she  listened,  he  was  telling  her  how  eminently  proper  it  was 
that  she  should  marry  Ditmar,  because  of  her  Bumpus 
blood.  And  this  made  her  laugh.  .  .  .  Again,  Ditmar  was 


416  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

kissing  her  hair.  He  had  often  praised  it.  She  had  taken 
it  down  and  combed  it  out  for  him ;  it  was  like  a  cloud,  he 
said  —  so  fine ;  its  odour  made  him  faint  —  and  then  the 
odour  changed,  became  that  of  the  detested  perfume  of  Miss 
Lottie  Myers  !  Even  that  made  Janet  smile  !  But  Ditmar 
was  strong,  he  was  powerful,  he  was  a  Fact,  why  not  go 
back  to  him  and  let  him  absorb  and  destroy  her?  That 
annihilation  would  be  joy.  .  .  . 

It  could  not  have  been  much  later  than  seven  o'clock 
when  she  found  herself  opposite  the  familiar,  mulberry- 
shingled  Protestant  church.  The  light  from  its  vestibule 
made  a  gleaming  square  on  the  wet  sidewalk,  and  into  this 
area,  from  the  surrounding  darkness,  came  silhouetted  fig 
ures  of  men  and  women  holding  up  umbrellas ;  some  paused 
for  a  moment's  chat,  their  voices  subdued  by  an  awareness 
of  the  tabernacle.  At  the  sight  of  this  tiny  congregation 
something  stirred  within  her.  She  experienced  a  twinge 
of  surprise  at  the  discovery  that  other  people  in  the 
world,  in  Hampton,  were  still  leading  tranquil,  untor- 
mented  existences.  They  were  contented,  prosperous, 
stupid,  beyond  any  need  of  help  from  God,  and  yet  they 
were  going  to  prayer-meeting  to  ask  something !  He  re 
fused  to  find  her  in  the  dark  streets.  Would  she  find  Him 
if  she  went  in  there?  and  would  He  help  her? 

The  bell  in  the  tower  began  to  clang,  with  heavy,  relent 
less  strokes  —  like  physical  blows  from  which  she  flinched 
—  each  stirring  her  reluctant,  drowsy  soul  to  a  quicker 
agony.  From  the  outer  blackness  through  which  she  fled 
she  gazed  into  bright  rooms  of  homes  whose  blinds  were 
left  undrawn,  as  though  to  taunt  and  mock  the  wanderer. 
She  was  an  outcast !  Who  henceforth  would  receive  her  save 
those,  unconformed  and  unconformable,  sentenced  to  sin  in 
this  realm  of  blackness?  Henceforth  from  all  warmth  arid 
love  she  was  banished.  ...  In  the  middle  of  the  Stanley 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  417 

Street  bridge  she  stopped  to  lean  against  the  wet  rail ;  the  mill 
lights  were  scattered,  dancing  points  of  fire  over  the  invisible 
swift  waters,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  presently  to  the  lights 
themselves,  seeking  one  unconsciously  —  Ditmar's  !  Yes, 
it  was  his  she  sought ;  though  it  was  so  distant,  sometimes 
it  seemed  to  burn  like  a  red  star,  and  then  to  flicker  and 
disappear.  She  could  not  be  sure.  .  .  .  Something  chill  and 
steely  was  in  the  pocket  of  her  coat  —  it  made  a  heavy 
splash  in  the  water  when  she  dropped  it.  The  river  could 
not  be  so  very  cold !  She  wished  she  could  go  down  like 
that  into  forget  fulness.  But  she  couldn't.  .  .  .  Where  was 
Lise  now  ?  .  .  .  It  would  be  so  easy  just  to  drop  over  that 
parapet  and  be  whirled  away,  and  down  and  down.  Why 
couldn't  she  ?  Well,  it  was  because  —  because  —  she  was 
going  to  have  a  child.  Well,  if  she  had  a  child  to  take  care 
of,  she  would  not  be  so  lonely  —  she  would  have  something 
to  love.  She  loved  it  now,  as  though  she  felt  it  quickening 
within  her,  she  wanted  it,  to  lavish  on  it  all  of  a  starved 
affection.  She  seemed  actually  to  feel  in  her  arms  its  soft 
little  body  pressed  against  her.  Claude  Ditmar's  child ! 
And  she  suddenly  recalled,  as  an  incident  of  the  remote 
past,  that  she  had  told  him  she  wanted  it ! 

This  tense  craving  for  it  she  felt  now  was  somehow  the  an 
swer  to  an  expressed  wish  which  had  astonished  her.  Per 
haps  that  was  the  reason  why  she  had  failed  to  do  what  she 
had  tried  to  do,  to  shoot  Ditmar  and  herself !  It  was  Dit 
mar's  child,  Ditmar's  and  hers  !  He  had  loved  her,  long  ago, 
and  just  now  —  was  it  just  now  ?  —  he  had  said  he  loved  her 
still,  he  had  wanted  to  marry  her.  Then  why  had  she  run 
away  from  him?  Why  had  she  taken  the  child  into  outer 
darkness,  to  be  born  without  a  father,  —  when  she  loved 
Ditmar  ?  Wasn't  that  one  reason  why  she  wanted  the  child  ? 
why,  even  in  her  moments  of  passionate  hatred  she  recalled 
having  been  surprised  by  some  such  yearning  as  now  came 

2E 


418  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

over  her  ?  And  for  an  interval,  a  brief  interval,  she  viewed 
him  with  startling  clarity.  Not  because  he  embodied  any 
ideal  did  she  love  him,  but  because  he  was  what  he  was, 
because  he  had  overcome  her  will,  dominated  and  possessed 
her,  left  his  mark  upon  her  indelibly.  He  had  been  cruel 
to  her,  willing  to  sacrifice  her  to  his  way  of  life,  to  his  own 
desires,  but  he  loved  her,  for  she  had  seen,  if  not  heeded 
in  his  eyes  the  look  that  a  woman  never  mistakes !  She 
remembered  it  now,  and  the  light  in  his  window  glowed 
again,  like  a  star  to  guide  her  back  to  him.  It  was  drawing 
her,  irresistibly.  .  .  . 

The  sentry  recognized  her  as  she  came  along  the  canal. 

"Mr.  Ditmar's  gone,"  he  told  her. 

"Gone!"   she  repeated.     "Gone!" 

"Why,  yes,  about  five  minutes  after  you  left  he  was 
looking  for  you  —  he  asked  the  sergeant  about  you." 

"And  — he  won't  be  back?" 

"I  guess  not,"  answered  the  man,  sympathetically.  "He 
said  good-night." 

She  turned  away  dully.  The  strength  and  hope  with 
which  she  had  been  so  unexpectedly  infused  while  gazing 
from  the  bridge  at  his  window  had  suddenly  ebbed  ;  her  legs 
ached,  her  feet  were  wet,  and  she  shivered,  though  her 
forehead  burned.  The  world  became  distorted,  people 
flitted  past  her  like  weird  figures  of  a  dream,  the  myriad 
lights  of  Faber  Street  were  blurred  and  whirled  in  company 
with  the  electric  signs.  Seeking  to  escape  from  their  con 
fusion  she  entered  a  side  street  leading  north,  only  to  be 
forcibly  seized  by  some  one  who  darted  after  her  from  the 
sidewalk. 

"Excuse  me,  but  you  didn't  see  that  automobile,"  he  said, 
as  he  released  her. 

Shaken,  she  went  on  through  several  streets  to  find  her 
self  at  length  confronted  by  a  pair  of  shabby  doors  that 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  419 

looked  familiar,  and  pushing  one  of  them  open,  halted  at 
the  bottom  of  a  stairway  to  listen.  The  sound  of  cheerful 
voices  cam?  to  her  from  above;  she  started  to  climb — even 
with  the  help  of  the  rail  it  seemed  as  if  she  would  never  reach 
the  top  of  that  stairway.  But  at  last  she  stood  in  a  loft 
where  long  tables  were  set,  and  at  the  end  of  one  of  these, 
sorting  out  spoons  and  dishes,  three  women  and  a  man 
were  chatting  and  laughing  together.  Janet  was  troubled 
because  she  could  not  remember  who  the  man  was, 
although  she  recognized  his  bold  profile,  his  voice  and 
gestures.  ...  At  length  one  of  the  women  said  some 
thing  in  a  low  tone,  and  he  looked  around  quickly  and 
crossed  the  room. 

"Why,  it's  you!"  he  said,  and  suddenly  she  recalled  his 
name. 

"Mr.  Insall!" 

But  his  swift  glance  had  noticed  the  expression  in  her 
eyes,  the  sagged  condition  of  her  clothes,  the  attitude  that 
proclaimed  exhaustion.  He  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led 
her  to  the  little  storeroom,  turning  on  the  light  and  placing 
her  in  a  chair.  Darkness  descended  on  her.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Maturin,  returning  from  an  errand,  paused  for  an 
instant  in  the  doorway,  and  ran  forward  and  bent  over 
Janet. 

"Oh,  Brooks,  what  is  it  —  what's  happened  to  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  "I  didn't  have  a  chance  to 
ask  her.  I'm  going  for  a  doctor." 

"Leave  her  to  me,  and  call  Miss  Hay."  Mrs.  Maturin 
was  instantly  competent.  .  .  .  And  when  Insall  came  back 
from  the  drug  store  where  he  had  telephoned  she  met  him 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "We've  done  everything  we  can, 
Edith  Hay  has  given  her  brandy,  and  gone  off  for  dry  clothes, 
and  we've  taken  all  the  children's  things  out  of  the  drawers 
and  laid  her  on  the  floor,  but  she  hasn't  come  to.  Poor 


420  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

child,  —  what  can  have  happened  to  her?  Is  the  doctor 
coming?" 

"Right  away,"  said  Insall,  and  Mrs.  Maturin  went 
back  into  the  storeroom.  Miss  Hay  brought  the  dry  clothes 
before  the  physician  arrived. 

"It's  probably  pneumonia,"  he  explained  to  Insall  a 
little  later.  "  She  must  go  to  the  hospital  —  but  the  trouble 
is  all  our  hospitals  are  pretty  full,  owing  to  the  sickness 
caused  by  the  strike."  He  hesitated.  "Of  course,  if  she 
has  friends,  she  could  have  better  care  in  a  private  insti 
tution  just  now." 

"Oh,  she  has  friends,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin.  "Couldn't 
we  take  her  to  our  little  hospital  at  Silliston,  doctor  ?  It's 
only  four  miles  —  that  isn't  much  in  an  automobile,  and 
the  roads  are  good  now." 

"Well,  the  risk  isn't  much  greater,  if  you  have  a  closed 
car,  and  she  would,  of  course,  be  better  looked  after,"  the 
physician  consented. 

"I'll  see  to  it  at  once,"  said  Insall.   .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  Martha  Wootton  Memorial  Hospital  was  the  hobby 
of  an  angel  alumnus  of  Silliston.  It  was  situated  in  Hovey's 
Lane,  but  from  the  window  of  the  white-enameled  room  in 
which  she  lay  Janet  could  see  the  bare  branches  of  the 
Common  elms  quivering  to  the  spring  gusts,  could  watch, 
day  by  day,  the  grass  changing  from  yellow-brown  to  vivid 
green  in  the  white  sunlight.  In  the  morning,  when  the 
nurse  opened  the  blinds,  that  sunlight  swept  radiantly 
into  the  room,  lavish  with  its  caresses;  always  spending, 
always  giving,  the  symbol  of  a  loving  care  that  had  been 
poured  out  on  her,  unasked  and  unsought.  It  was  sweet 
to  rest,  to  sleep.  And  instead  of  the  stringent  monster- 
cry  of  the  siren,  of  the  discordant  clamour  of  the  mill  bells, 
it  was  sweet  yet  strange  to  be  awakened  by  silver-toned 
chimes  proclaiming  peaceful  hours.  At  first  she  surrendered 
to  the  spell,  and  had  no  thought  of  the  future.  For  a  little 
while  every  day,  Mrs.  Maturin  read  aloud,  usually  from 
books  of  poetry.  And  knowing  many  of  the  verses  by 
heart,  she  would  watch  Janet's  face,  framed  in  the  soft 
dark  hair  that  fell  in  two  long  plaits  over  her  shoulders. 
For  Janet  little  guessed  the  thought  that  went  into  the  choos 
ing  of  these  books,  nor  could  she  know  of  the  hours  spent 
by  this  lady  pondering  over  library  shelves  or  consulting 
eagerly  with  Brooks  Insall.  Sometimes  Augusta  Maturin 
thought  of  Janet  as  a  wildflower  —  one  of  the  rare,  shy  ones, 
hiding  under  its  leaves ;  sprung  up  in  Hampton,  of  all  places, 

421 


422  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

crushed  by  a  heedless  foot,  yet  miraculously  not  destroyed, 
and  already  pushing  forth  new  and  eager  tendrils.  And 
she  had  transplanted  it.  To  find  the  proper  nourishment, 
to  give  it  a  chance  to  grow  in  a  native,  congenial  soil,  — 
such  was  her  breathless  task.  And  so  she  had  selected  "  The 
Child's  Garden  of  Verses." 

"I  should  like  to  rise  and  go 
Where  the  golden  apples  grow"  .  .  . 

When  she  laid  down  her  book  it  was  to  talk,  perhaps,  of 
Silliston.  Established  here  before  the  birth  of  the  Republic, 
its  roots  were  bedded  in  the  soil  of  a  racial  empire,  to  a 
larger  vision  of  which  Augusta  Maturin  clung :  an  empire 
of  Anglo-Saxon  tradition  which,  despite  disagreements  and 
conflicts  —  nay,  through  them  —  developed  imperceptibly 
toward  a  sublimer  union,  founded  not  on  dominion,  but  on 
justice  and  right.  She  spoke  of  the  England  she  had 
visited  on  her  wedding  journey,  of  the  landmarks  and  lit 
erature  that  also  through  generations  have  been  American 
birthrights;  and  of  that  righteous  self-assertion  and  inde 
pendence  which,  by  protest  and  even  by  war,  America 
had  contributed  to  the  democracy  of  the  future.  Silliston, 
indifferent  to  cults  and  cataclysms,  undisturbed  by  the  dark 
tides  flung  westward  to  gather  in  deposits  in  other  parts 
of  the  land,  had  held  fast  to  the  old  tradition,  stood  ready 
to  do  her  share  to  transform  it  into  something  even  nobler 
when  the  time  should  come.  Simplicity  and  worth  and 
beauty  —  these  elements  at  least  of  the  older  Republic 
should  not  perish,  but  in  the  end  prevail. 

She  spoke  simply  of  these  things,  connecting  them  with 
a  Silliston  whose  spirit  appealed  to  all  that  was  inherent 
and  abiding  in  the  girl.  All  was  not  chaos :  here  at  least 
a  beacon  burned  with  a  bright  and  steady  flame.  And  she 
spoke  of  Andrew  Silliston,  the  sturdy  colonial  prototype 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  423 

of  the  American  culture,  who  had  fought  against  his  King, 
who  had  spent  his  modest  fortune  to  found  this  seat  of 
learning,  believing  as  he  did  that  education  is  the  corner 
stone  of  republics;  divining  that  lasting  unity  is  possible 
alone  by  the  transformation  of  the  individual  into  the 
citizen  through  voluntary  bestowal  of  service  and  the  fruits 
of  labour.  Samuel  Wootton,  the  Boston  merchant  who  had 
given  the  hospital,  was  Andrew's  true  descendant,  imbued 
with  the  same  half-conscious  intuition  that  builds  even  better 
that  it  recks.  And  Andrew,  could  he  have  returned  to  earth 
in  his  laced  coat  and  long  silk  waistcoat,  would  still  recognize 
his  own  soul  hi  Silliston  Academy,  the  soul  of  his  creed  and 
race. 

"Away  down  the  river, 
A  hundred  miles  or  more, 
Other  little  children 
Shall  bring  my  boats  ashore."  .  .  . 

Janet  drew  in  a  great  breath,  involuntarily.  These  were 
moments  when  it  seemed  that  she  could  scarcely  contain 
what  she  felt  of  beauty  and  significance,  when  the  ecstasy 
and  pain  were  not  to  be  borne.  And  sometimes,  as  she 
listened  to  Mrs.  Maturin's  voice,  she  wept  in  silence.  Again 
a  strange  peace  descended  on  her,  the  peace  of  an  exile 
come  home;  if  not  to  remain,  at  least  to  know  her  own 
land  and  people  before  faring  forth.  She  would  not  think 
of  that  faring  yet  awhile,  but  strive  to  live  and  taste  the 
present  —  and  yet  as  life  flowed  back  into  her  veins  that 
past  arose  to  haunt  her,  she  yearned  to  pour  it  out  to  her 
new  friend,  to  confess  all  that  had  happened  to  her.  Why 
couldn't  she  ?  But  she  was  grateful  because  Mrs.  Maturin 
betrayed  no  curiosity.  Janet  often  lay  watching  her, 
puzzled,  under  the  spell  of  a  frankness,  an  ingenuousness,  a 
simplicity  she  had  least  expected  to  find  in  one  who  belonged 


424  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

to  such  a  learned  place  as  that  of  Silliston.  But  even  learn 
ing,  she  was  discovering,  could  be  amazingly  simple.  Freely 
and  naturally  Mrs.  Maturin  dwelt  on  her  own  past,  on  the 
little  girl  of  six  taken  from  her  the  year  after  her  husband 
died,  on  her  husband  himself,  once  a  professor  here,  and  who, 
just  before  his  last  illness,  had  published  a  brilliant  book 
on  Russian  literature  which  resulted  in  his  being  called  to 
Harvard.  They  had  gone  to  Switzerland  instead,  and 
Augusta  Maturin  had  come  back  to  Silliston.  She  told 
Janet  of  the  loon-haunted  lake,  hemmed  in  by  the  Lauren- 
tian  hills,  besieged  by  forests,  where  she  had  spent  her  girl 
hood  summers  with  her  father,  Professor  Wishart,  of  the 
University  of  Toronto.  There,  in  search  of  health,  Gifford 
Maturin  had  come  at  her  father's  suggestion  to  camp. 

Janet,  of  course,  could  not  know  all  of  that  romance, 
though  she  tried  to  picture  it  from  what  her  friend  told 
her.  Augusta  Wishart,  at  six  and  twenty,  had  been  one  of 
those  magnificent  Canadian  women  who  are  most  at  home 
in  the  open ;  she  could  have  carried  Gifford  Maturin  out  of 
the  wilderness  on  her  back.  She  was  five  feet  seven,  mod 
elled  in  proportion,  endowed  by  some  Celtic  ancestor  with 
that  dark  chestnut  hair  which,  because  of  its  abundance, 
she  wore  braided  and  caught  up  in  a  heavy  knot  behind  her 
head.  Tanned  by  the  northern  sun,  kneeling  upright  in  a 
canoe,  she  might  at  a  little  distance  have  been  mistaken  for 
one  of  the  race  to  which  the  forests  and  waters  had  once 
belonged.  The  instinct  of  mothering  was  strong  in  her, 
and  from  the  beginning  she  had  taken  the  shy  and  delicate 
student  under  her  wing,  recognizing  in  him  one  of  the  physi 
cally  helpless  dedicated  to  a  supreme  function.  He  was 
forever  catching  colds,  his  food  disagreed  with  him,  and  on 
her  own  initiative  she  discharged  his  habitant  cook  and  sup 
plied  him  with  one  of  her  own  choosing.  When  overtaken 
by  one  of  his  indispositions  she  paddled  him  about  the  lake 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  425 

with  lusty  strokes,  first  placing  a  blanket  over  his  knees, 
and  he  submitted  :  he  had  no  pride  of  that  sort,  he  was  utterly 
indifferent  to  the  figure  he  cut  beside  his  Amazon.  His 
gentleness  of  disposition,  his  brilliant  conversations  with 
those  whom,  like  her  father,  he  knew  and  trusted,  capti 
vated  Augusta.  At  this  period  of  her  life  she  was  awaken 
ing  to  the  glories  of  literature  and  taking  a  special  course 
in  that  branch.  He  talked  to  her  of  Gogol,  Turgenief,  and 
Dostoievsky,  and  seated  on  the  log  piazza  read  in  excellent 
French  "Dead  Souls,"  "Peres  et  Enfants,"  and  "The 
Brothers  Karamazoff."  At  the  end  of  August  he  went 
homeward  almost  gaily,  quite  ignorant  of  the  arrow  in  his 
h3art,  until  he  began  to  miss  Augusta  Wishart's  ministra 
tions  —  and  Augusta  Wishart  herself.  .  .  .  Then  had  fol 
lowed  that  too  brief  period  of  intensive  happiness.  .  .  . 

The  idea  of  remarriage  had  never  occurred  to  her.  At 
eight  and  thirty,  though  tragedy  had  left  its  mark,  it  had 
been  powerless  to  destroy  the  sweetness  of  a  nature  of  such 
vitality  as  hers.  The  innate  necessity  of  loving  remained, 
and  as  time  went  on  had  grown  more  wistful  and  insistent. 
Insall  and  her  Silliston  neighbours  were  wont,  indeed, 
gently  to  rally  her  on  her  enthusiams,  while  understanding 
and  sympathizing  with  this  need  in  her.  A  creature  of  in 
tuition,  Janet  had  appealed  to  her  from  the  beginning, 
arousing  first  her  curiosity,  and  then  the  maternal  instinct 
that  craved  a  mind  to  mould,  a  soul  to  respond  to  her  touch 

Mrs.  Maturin  often  talked  to  Janet  of  Insall,  who  had, 
in  a  way,  long  been  connected  with  Silliston.  In  his  early 
wandering  days,  wThen  tramping  over  New  England,  he  used 
unexpectedly  to  turn  up  at  Dr.  Ledyard's,  the  principal's, 
remain  for  several  weeks  and  disappear  again.  Even  then 
he  had  been  a  sort  of  institution,  a  professor  emeritus  in 
botany,  bird  lore,  and  woodcraft,  taking  the  boys  on  long 
walks  through  the  neighbouring  hills ;  and  suddenly  he  had 


426  THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

surprised  everybody  by  fancying  the  tumble-down  farm 
house  in  Judith's  Lane,  which  he  had  restored  with  his  own 
hands  into  the  quaintest  of  old  world  dwellings.  Behind  it 
he  had  made  a  dam  in  the  brook,  and  put  in  a  water  wheel 
that  ran  his  workshop.  In  play  hours  the  place  was  usually 
overrun  by  boys.  .  .  .  But  sometimes  the  old  craving  for 
tramping  would  overtake  him,  one  day  his  friends  would 
find  the  house  shut  up,  and  he  would  be  absent  for  a  fort 
night,  perhaps  for  a  month  —  one  never  knew  when  he  was 
going,  or  when  he  would  return.  He  went,  like  his  hero, 
Silas  Simpkins,  through  the  byways  of  New  England,  stop 
ping  at  night  at  the  farm-houses,  or  often  sleeping  out  under 
the  stars.  And  then,  perhaps,  he  would  write  another  booV. 
He  wrote  only  when  he  felt  like  writing. 

It  was  this  book  of  Insall's,  "The  Travels  of  Silas  Simp- 
kins,"  rather  than  his  "Epworth  Green"  or  "The  Hermit  of 
Blue  Mountain,"  that  Mrs.  Maturin  chose  to  read  to  Janet. 
Unlike  the  sage  of  Walden,  than  whom  he  was  more  gre 
garious,  instead  of  a  log  house  for  his  castle  Silas  Simpkins 
chose  a  cart,  which  he  drove  in  a  most  leisurely  manner  from 
the  sea  to  the  mountains,  penetrating  even  to  hamlets  beside 
the  silent  lakes  on  the  Canadian  border,  and  then  went  back 
to  the  sea  again.  Two  chunky  grey  horses  with  wide  fore 
heads  and  sagacious  eyes  propelled  him  at  the  rate  of  three 
miles  an  hour;-  for  these,  as  their  master,  had  learned  the 
lesson  that  if  life  is  to  be  fully  savoured  it  is  not  to  be  bolted. 
Silas  cooked  and  ate,  and  sometimes  read  under  the  maples 
beside  the  stone  walls :  usually  he  slept  in  the  cart  in  the 
midst  of  the  assortment  of  goods  that  proclaimed  him,  to 
the  astute,  an  expert  in  applied  psychology.  At  first  you 
might  have  thought  Silas  merely  a  peddler,  but  if  you  knew 
your  Thoreau  you  would  presently  begin  to  perceive  that 
peddling  was  the  paltry  price  he  paid  for  liberty.  Silas 
was  in  a  way  a  sage  —  but  such  a  human  sage  !  He  never 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  427 

intruded  with  theories,  he  never  even  hinted  at  the  folly 
of  the  mortals  who  bought  or  despised  his  goods,  or  with 
whom  he  chatted  by  the  wayside,  though  he  may  have  had 
his  ideas  on  the  subject :  it  is  certain  that  presently  one 
began  to  have  one's  own :  nor  did  he  exclaim  with  George 
Sand,  "  II  n'y  a  rien  de  plus  betement  mediant  que  Inhabitant 
des  petites  miles  /"  Somehow  the  meannesses  and  jealousies 
were  accounted  for,  if  not  excused.  To  understand  is  to 
pardon. 

It  was  so  like  Insall,  this  book,  hi  its  whimsicality,  in 
its  feeling  of  space  and  freedom,  in  its  hidden  wisdom  that 
gradually  revealed  itself  as  one  thought  it  over  before  falling 
off  to  sleep !  New  England  in  the  early  summer !  Here, 
beside  the  tender  greens  of  the  Ipswich  downs  wras  the  spar 
kling  cobalt  of  the  sea,  and  she  could  almost  smell  its  cool 
salt  breath  mingling  with  the  warm  odours  of  hay  and  the 
pungent  scents  of  roadside  flowers.  Weathered  grey  cottages 
were  scattered  over  the  landscape,  and  dark  copses  of  cedars, 
while  oceanward  the  eye  was  caught  by  the  gleam  of  a  light 
house  or  a  lonely  sail. 

Even  in  that  sandy  plain,  covered  with  sickly,  stunted 
pines  and  burned  patches,  stretching  westward  from  the 
Merrimac,  Silas  saw  beauty  and  colour,  life  in  the  once 
prosperous  houses  not  yet  abandoned.  .  .  .  Presently  the 
hills,  all  hyacinth  blue,  rise  up  against  the  sunset,  and  the 
horses'  feet  are  on  the  "Boston  Road"  —or  rud,  according 
to  the  authorized  pronunciation  of  that  land.  Hardly, 
indeed,  in  many  places,  a  "rud"  to-day,  reverting  pictur 
esquely  into  the  forest  trail  over  which  the  early  inland 
settlers  rode  their  horses  or  drove  their  oxen  with  up- 
country  produce  to  the  sea.  They  were  not  a  people  who 
sought  the  easiest  way,  and  the  Boston  Road  reflects  their 
characters :  few  valleys  are  deep  enough  to  turn  it  aside, 
few  mountains  can  appal  it :  railroads  have  given  it  a  wide 


428  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

berth.  Here  and  there  the  forest  opens  out  to  reveal,  on 
a  knoll  or  "flat,"  a  forgotten  village  or  tavern-stand. 
Over  the  high  shelf  of  Washington  Town  it  runs  where  the 
air  is  keen  and  the  lakes  are  blue,  where  long-stemmed  wild 
flowers  nod  on  its  sunny  banks,  to  reach  at  length  the  rounded, 
classic  hills  and  sentinel  mountain  that  mark  the  sheep 
country  of  the  Connecticut.  .  ,  . 


It  was  before  Janet's  convalescence  began  that  Mrs. 
Maturin  had  consulted  Insall  concerning  her  proposed  ex 
periment  in  literature.  Afterwards  he  had  left  Silliston 
for  a  lumber  camp  on  a  remote  river  in  northern  Maine, 
abruptly  to  reappear,  on  a  mild  afternoon  late  in  April,  in 
Augusta  Maturin's  garden.  The  crocuses  and  tulips  were 
in  bloom,  and  his  friend,  in  a  gardening  apron,  was  on  her 
knees,  trowel  in  hand,  assisting  a  hired  man  to  set  out  mari 
golds  and  snapdragons. 

"Well,  it's  time  you  were  home  again,"  she  exclaimed, 
as  she  rose  to  greet  him  and  led  him  to  a  chair  on  the  little 
flagged  terrace  beside  the  windows  of  her  library.  "I've 
got  so  much  to  tell  you  about  our  invalid." 

"Our  invalid  !"  Insall  retorted. 

"Of  course.  I  look  to  you  to  divide  the  responsibility 
with  me,  and  you've  shirked  by  running  off  to  Maine.  You 
found  her,  you  know  —  and  she's  really  remarkable." 

"Now  see  here,  Augusta,  you  can't  expect  me  to  share 
the  guardianship  of  an  attractive  and  —  well,  a  dynamic 
young  woman.  If  she  affects  you  this  way,  what  will  she 
do  to  me?  I'm  much  too  susceptible." 

"Susceptible!"  she  scoffed.  "But  you  can't  get  out  of 
it.  I  need  you.  I've  never  been  so  interested  and  so  per 
plexed  in  my  life." 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  429 

"How  is  she?"  Insall  asked. 

"Frankly,  I'm  worried,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin.  "At  first 
she  seemed  to  be  getting  along  beautifully.  I  read  to  her, 
a  little  every  day,  and  it  was  wonderful  how  she  responded 
to  it.  I'll  tell  you  about  that  —  I've  got  so  much  to  tell 
you !  '  Young  Dr.  Trent  is  puzzled,  too,  it  seems  there  are 
symptoms  in  the  case  for  which  he  cannot  account.  Some 
three  weeks  ago  he  asked  me  what  I  made  out  of  her,  and 
I  can't  make  anything  —  that's  the  trouble,  except  that  she 
seems  pathetically  grateful,  and  that  I've  grown  absurdly 
fond  of  her.  But  she  isn't  improving  as  fast  as  she  should, 
and  Dr.  Trent  doesn't  know  whether  or  not  to  suspect  func 
tional  complications.  Her  constitution  seems  excellent, 
her  vitality  unusual.  Trent's  impressed  by  her,  he  inclines 
to  the  theory  that  she  has  something  on  her  mind,  and  if 
this  is  so  she  should  get  rid  of  it,  tell  it  to  somebody  —  in 
short,  tell  it  to  me.  I  know  she's  fo.id  of  me,  but  she's  so 
maddeningly  self-contained,  and  at  moments  when  I  look 
at  her  she  baffles  me,  she  makes  me  feel  like  an  atom. 
Twenty  times  at  least  I've  almost  screwed  up  my  courage 
to  ask  her,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  simply  can't 
do  it." 

"You  ought  to  be  able  to  get  at  it,  if  any  one  can,"  said 
Insall. 

"I've  a  notion  it  may  be  connected  with  the  strike," 
Augusta  Maturin  continued.  "I  never  could  account  for 
her  being  mixed  up  in  that,  plunging  into  Syndicalism.  It 
seemed  so  foreign  to  her  nature.  I  wish  I'd  waited  a  little 
longer  before  telling  her  about  the  strike,  but  one  day  she 
asked  me  how  it  had  come  out  —  and  she  seemed  to  be 
getting  along  so  nicely  I  didn't  see  any  reason  for  not  tell 
ing  her.  I  said  that  the  strike  was  over,  that  the  mill- 
owners  had  accepted  the  I.W.W.  terms,  but  that  Antonelli 
and  Jastro  had  been  sent  to  jail  and  were  awaiting  trial 


430  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

because  they  had  been  accused  of  instigating  the  murder  of 
a  woman  who  was  shot  by  a  striker  aiming  at  a  police 
man.  It  seems  that  she  had  seen  that !  She  told  me  so 
quite  casually.  But  she  was  interested,  and  I  went  on  to 
mention  how  greatly  the  strikers  were  stirred  by  the  arrests, 
how  they  paraded  in  front  of  the  jail,  singing,  and  how  the 
feeling  was  mostly  directed  against  Mr.  Ditmar,  because  he 
was  accused  of  instigating  the  placing  of  dynamite  in  the 
tenements." 

"And  you  spoke  of  Mr.  Ditmar's  death?"  Insall  inquired. 

"Why  yes,  I  told  her  how  he  had  been  shot  in  Dover 
Street  by  a  demented  Italian,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  proved 
that  the  Italian  was  insane  and  not  a  mill  worker,  the  result 
of  the  strike  might  have  been  different." 

"How  did  she  take  it?" 

"Well,  she  was  shocked,  of  course.  She  sat  up  in  bed, 
staring  at  me,  and  then  leaned  back  on  the  pillows  again. 
I  pretended  not  to  notice  it  —  but  I  was  sorry  I'd  said  any 
thing  about  it." 

"She  didn't  say  anything?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"Didn't  you  know  that,  before  the  strike,  she  was  Dit- 
mar's  private  stenographer  ?  " 

"No!"  Augusta  Maturin  exclaimed.  "Why  didn't  you 
tell  me?" 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  to  tell  you,"  Insall  replied. 

"That  must  have  something  to  do  with  it!"  said  Mrs. 
Maturin. 

Insall  got  up  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  terrace,  gaz 
ing  at  a  bluebird  on  the  edge  of  the  lawn. 

"Well,  not  necessarily,"  he  said,  after  a  while.  "Did  you 
ever  find  out  anything  about  her  family  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  met  the  father  once,  he's  been  out  two  or 
three  times,  on  Sunday,  and  came  over  here  to  thank  me 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  431 

for  what  I'd  done.  The  mother  doesn't  come  —  she  has  some 
trouble,  I  don't  know  exactly  what.  Brooks,  I  wish  you 
could  see  the  father,  he's  so  typically  unique  —  if  one  may 
use  the  expression.  A  gatekeeper  at  the  Chippering  Mills  !" 

"A  gatekeeper?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  quite  sure  he  doesn't  understand  to  this 
day  how  he  became  one,  or  why.  He's  delightfully  naive 
on  the  subject  of  genealogy,  and  I  had  the  Bumpus  family 
by  heart  before  he  left.  That's  the  form  his  remnant  of 
the  intellectual  curiosity  of  his  ancestors  takes.  He  was 
born  in  Dolton,  which  was  settled  by  the  original  Bumpus, 
back  in  the  Plymouth  Colony  days,  and  if  he  were  rich  he'd 
have  a  library  stuffed  with  gritty,  yellow-backed  books  and 
be  a  leading  light  in  the  Historical  Society.  He  speaks  with 
that  nicety  of  pronunciation  of  the  old  New  Englander, 
never  slurring  his  syllables,  and  he  has  a  really  fine  face,  the 
kind  of  face  one  doesn't  often  see  nowadays.  I  kept  look 
ing  at  it,  wondering  what  was  the  matter  with  it,  and  at  last 
I  realized  what  it  lacked  —  will,  desire,  ambition,  —  it  was 
what  a  second-rate  sculptor  might  have  made  of  Bradford, 
for  instance.  But  there  is  a  remnant  of  fire  in  him.  Once, 
when  he  spoke  of  the  strike,  of  the  foreigners,  he  grew  quite 
indignant." 

"He  didn't  tell  you  why  his  daughter  had  joined  the 
strikers?"  Insall  asked. 

"He  was  just  as  much  at  sea  about  that  as  you  and  I 
are.  Of  course  I  didn't  ask  him  —  he  asked  me  if  I  knew. 
It's  only  another  proof  of  her  amazing  reticence.  And  I 
can  imagine  an  utter  absence  of  sympathy  between  them. 
He  accounts  for  her,  of  course ;  he's  probably  the  uncon 
scious  transmitter  of  qualities  the  Puritans  possessed  and 
tried  to  smother.  Certainly  the  fires  are  alight  in  her,  and 
yet  it's  almost  incredible  that  he  should  have  conveyed  them. 
Of  course  I  haven't  seen  the  mother." 


432  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"It's  curious  he  didn't  mention  her  having  been  Ditmar's 
stenographer/'  Insall  put  in.  "Was  that  reticence?" 

"I  hardly  think  so/'  Augusta  Maturin  replied.  "It 
may  have  been,  but  the  impression  I  got  was  of  an  incapacity 
to  feel  the  present.  All  his  emotions  are  in  the  past,  most 
of  his  conversation  was  about  Bumpuses  who  are  dead  and 
buried,  and  his  pride  in  Janet  —  for  he  has  a  pride  —  seems 
to  exist  because  she  is  their  representative.  It's  extraordi 
nary,  but  he  sees  her  present  situation,  her  future,  with 
extraordinary  optimism ;  he  apparently  regards  her  coming 
to  Silliston,  even  in  the  condition  in  which  we  found  her,  as 
a  piece  of  deserved  fortune  for  which  she  has  to  thank  some 
virtue  inherited  from  her  ancestors !  Well,  perhaps  he's 
right.  If  she  were  not  unique,  I  shouldn't  want  to  keep  her 
here.  It's  pure  selfishness.  I  told  Mr.  Bumpus  I  expected 
to  find  work  for  her." 

Mrs.  Maturin  returned  Insall's  smile.  "I  suppose  you're 
too  polite  to  say  that  I'm  carried  away  by  my  enthusiasms. 
But  you  will  at  least  do  me  the  justice  to  admit  that  they  are 
rare  and  —  discriminating,  as  a  connoisseur's  should  be. 
I  think  even  you  will  approve  of  her." 

"Oh,  I  have  approved  of  her  —  that's  the  trouble." 

Mrs.  Maturin  regarded  him  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  when  I  began  to  read 
those  verses  of  Stevenson's.  It  was  an  inspiration;  vour 
thinking  of  them." 

"Did  I  think  of  them?" 

"You  know  you  did.  You  can't  escape  your  responsi 
bility.  Well,  I  felt  like  —  like  a  gambler,  as  though  I  were 
staking  everything  on  a  throw.  And,  after  I  began,  as  if  I 
were  playing  on  some  rare  instrument.  She  lay  there,  lis 
tening,  without  uttering  a  word,  but  somehow  she  seemed 
to  be  interpreting  them  for  me,  giving  them  a  meaning  and 
a  beauty  I  hadn't  imagined.  Another  time  I  told  her  about 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  433 

Silliston,  and  how  this  little  community  for  over  a  century 
and  a  half  had  tried  to  keep  its  standard  flying,  to  carry 
on  the  work  begun  by  old  Andrew,  and  I  thought  of  those 

lines, 

'  Other  little  children 

Shall  bring  my  boats  ashore.' 

That  particular  application  just  suddenly  occurred  to  me, 
but  she  inspired  it." 

" You're  a  born  schoolma'am,"  Insall  laughed. 

"I'm  much  too  radical  for  a  schoolma'am,"  she  declared. 
"No  board  of  trustees  would  put  up  with  me  —  not  even 
Silliston's !  We've  kept  the  faith,  but  we  do  move  slowly, 
Brooks.  Even  tradition  grows,  and  sometimes  our  blindness 
here  to  changes,  to  modern,  scientific  facts,  fairly  maddens 
me.  I  read  her  that  poem  of  Moody 's  —  you  know  it :  — 

'Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  the  talking  sea.' 

and  those  last  lines  :  - 

'But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 
What  harbour  town  for  thee  ? 
What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 
Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see  ? 
Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 
Stand  singing  brotherly  ? 
Or  shall  a  haggard,  ruthless  few 
Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 
While  the  many  broken  souls  of  me 
Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 
And  nothing  to  say  or  do  ?  ' 

I  was  sorry  afterwards,  I  could  see  that  she  was  tremen 
dously  excited.  And  she  made  me  feel  as  if  I,  too,  had  been 
battened  down  in  that  hold  and  bruised  and  almost  strangled. 
I  often  wonder  whether  she  has  got  out  of  it  into  the  light 
—  whether  we  can  rescue  her."  Mrs.  Maturin  paused. 

2F 


434  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Insall  asked. 

"  Well,  it's  difficult  to  describe,  what  I  feel  —  she's  such 
a  perplexing  mixture  of  old  New  England  and  modernity, 
of  a  fatalism,  and  an  aliveness  that  fairly  vibrates.  At 
first,  when  she  began  to  recover,  I  was  conscious  only  of 
the  vitality  —  but  lately  I  feel  the  other  quality.  It  isn't 
exactly  the  old  Puritan  fatalism,  or  even  the  Greek,  it's 
oddly  modern,  too,  almost  agnostic,  I  should  say,  —  a  calm 
acceptance  of  the  hazards  of  life,  of  nature,  of  sun  and  rain 
and  storm  alike  —  very  different  from  the  cheap  optimism 
one  finds  everywhere  now.  She  isn't  exactly  resigned  —  I 
don't  say  that  —  I  know  she  can  be  rebellious.  And  she's 
grateful  for  the  sun,  yet  she  seems  to  have  a  conviction  that 
the  clouds  will  gather  again.  .  .  .  The  doctor  says  she  may 
leave  the  hospital  on  Monday,  and  I'm  going  to  bring  her 
over  here  for  awhile.  Then,"  she  added  insinuatingly, 
"we  can  collaborate." 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  Maine,"  Insall  exclaimed. 

"If  you  desert  me,  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again," 
said  Mrs.  Maturin. 


"Janet,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin  the  next  day,  as  she  laid 
down  the  book  from  which  she  was  reading,  "do  you 
remember  that  I  spoke  to  you  once  in  Hampton  of  coming 
here  to  Silliston?  Well,  now  we've  got  you  here,  we  don't 
want  to  lose  you.  I've  been  making  inquiries ;  quite  a  num 
ber  of  the  professors  have  typewriting  to  be  done,  and  they 
will  be  glad  to  give  their  manuscripts  to  you  instead  of  send 
ing  them  to  Boston.  And  there's  Brooks  Insall  too  —  if 
he  ever  takes  it  into  his  head  to  write  another  book.  You 
wouldn't  have  any  trouble  reading  his  manuscript,  it's  like 
script.  Of  course  it  has  to  be  copied.  You  can  board  with 
Mrs.  Case  —  I've  arranged  that,  too.  But  on  Monday  I'm 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  435 

going  to  take  you  to  my  house,  and  keep  you  until  you're 
strong  enough  to  walk." 

Janet's  eyes  were  suddenly  bright  with  tears. 

"You'll  stay?" 

"I  can't,"  answered  Janet.     "I  couldn't." 

"  But  why  not  ?    Have  you  any  other  plans  ?  " 

"No,  I  haven't  any  plans,  but  —  I  haven't  the  right  to 
stay  here."  Presently  she  raised  her  face  to  her  friend. 
"Oh  Mrs.  Maturin,  I'm  so  sorry!  I  didn't  want  to  bring 
any  sadness  here  —  it's  all  so  bright  and  beautiful !  And 
now  I've  made  you  sad  !" 

It  was  a  moment  before  Augusta  Maturin  could  answer 
her. 

"What  are  friends  for,  Janet,"  she  asked,  "if  not  to  share 
sorrow  with  ?  And  do  you  suppose  there's  any  place,  how 
ever  bright,  where  sorrow  has  not  come?  Do  you  think 
I've  not  known  it,  too?  And  Janet,  I  haven't  sat  here  all 
these  days  with  you  without  guessing  that  something  worries 
you.  I've  been  waiting,  all  this  time,  for  you  to  tell  me,  in 
order  that  I  might  help  you." 

"I  wanted  to,"  said  Janet,  "every  day  I  wanted  to,  but 
I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  bear  to  trouble  you  with  it,  I  didn't 
mean  ever  to  tell  you.  And  then  —  it's  so  terrible,  I  don't 
know  what  you'll  think." 

"I  think  I  know  you,  Janet,"  answered  Mrs.  Maturin. 
"Nothing  human,  nothing  natural  is  terrible,  in  the  sense 
you  mean.  At  least  I'm  one  of  those  who  believe  so." 

Presently  Janet  said,  "I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 

Mrs.  Maturin  sat  very  still.  Something  closed  in  her 
throat,  preventing  her  immediate  reply. 

"I,  too,  had  a  child,  my  dear,"  she  answered.  "I  lost 
her."  She  felt  the  girl's  clasp  tighten  on  her  fingers. 

"But  you  —  you  had  a  right  to  it  —  you  were  married." 

"Children  are  sacred  things,"  said  Augusta  Maturin. 


436  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Sacred !  Could  it  be  that  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Maturin 
thought  that  this  child  which  was  coming  to  her  was  sacred, 
too? 

"However  they  come?"  asked  Janet.  "Oh,  I  tried  to  be 
lieve  that,  too  !  At  first  —  at  first  I  didn't  want  it,  and  when 
I  knew  it  was  coming  I  was  driven  almost  crazy.  And  then, 
all  at  once,  when  I  was  walking  in  the  rain,  I  knew  I  wanted 
it  to  have  —  to  keep  all  to  myself.  You  understand  ?" 

Augusta  Maturin  inclined  her  head. 

"But  the  father?"  she  managed  to  ask,  after  a  moment. 
"I  don't  wish  to  pry,  my  dear,  but  does  he  —  does  he  real 
ize?  Can't  he  help  you?" 

"It  was  Mr.  Ditmar." 

"Perhaps  it  will  help  you  to  tell  me  about  it,  Janet." 

"I'd  —  I'd  like  to.  I've  been  so  unhappy  since  you  told 
me  he  was  dead  —  and  I  felt  like  a  cheat.  You  see,  he 
promised  to  marry  me,  and  I  know  now  that  he  loved  me, 
that  he  really  wanted  to  marry  me,  but  something  happened 
to  make  me  believe  he  wasn't  going  to,  I  saw  —  another 
girl  who'd  got  into  trouble,  and  then  I  thought  he'd  only 
been  playing  with  me,  and  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  joined  the 
strikers  —  I  just  had  to  do  something." 

Augusta  Maturin  nodded,  and  waited. 

"I  was  only  a  stenographer,  and  we  were  very  poor,  and 
he  was  rich  and  lived  in  a  big  house,  the  most  important 
man  in  Hampton.  It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true  —  I 
suppose  I  never  really  thought  it  could  happen.  Please 
don't  think  I'm  putting  all  the  blame  on  him,  Mrs.  Maturin 
—  it  was  my  fault  just  as  much  as  his.  I  ought  to  have 
gone  away  from  Hampton,  but  I  didn't  have  the  strength. 
And  I  shouldn't  have — "  Janet  stopped. 

"But  — you  loved  him?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  For  a  long  time,  after  I  left  him,  I  thought 
I  didn't,  I  thought  I  hated  him,  and  when  I  found  out  what 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  437 

had  happened  to  me  —  that  night  I  came  to  you  —  I  got 
my  father's  pistol  and  went  to  the  mill  to  shoot  him.  I  was 
going  to  shoot  myself,  too." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Maturin  gasped.  She  gave  a  quick  glance 
of  sheer  amazement  at  Janet,  who  did  not  seem  to  notice 
it;  who  was  speaking  objectively,  apparently,  with  no  seijse- 


of  the  drama  in  her  announcement. 

"But  I  couldn't,"  she  went  on.  XAt  thejtiffre  I  didn't 
know  why  I  couldn't,  but  when  I/went^ftrffl  understood  it 
was  because  I  wanted  the  child,  because  it  was  his  child. 
And  though  he  was  almost  out  of  his  head,  he  seemed  so 
glad  because  I'd  come  back  to  him,  and  said  he'd  marry  me 
right  away." 

"And  you  refused !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Maturin. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  was  out  of  my  head,  too,  I  still  thought 
I  hated  him  —  but  I'd  loved  him  all  the  time.  It  was  funny  ! 
He  had  lots  of  faults,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  understand  or 
care  much  about  how  poor  people  feel,  though  he  was  kind 
to  them  in  the  mills.  He  might  have  come  to  understand 
—  I  don't  know  —  it  wasn't  because  he  didn't  want  to,  but 
because  he  was  so  separated  from  them,  I  guess,  and  he  was 
so  interested  in  what  he  was  doing.  He  had  ambition,  he 
thought  everything  of  that  mill,  he'd  made  it.  I  don't 
know  why  I  loved  him,  it  wasn't  because  he  was  fine,  like 
Mr.  Insall,  but  he  was  strong  and  brave,  and  he  needed  me 
and  just  took  me." 

"One  never  knows !"  Augusta  Maturin  murmured. 

"I  went  back  that  night  to  tell  him  I'd  marry  him  —  and 
he'd  gone.  Then  I  came  to  you,  to  the  soup  kitchen.  I 
didn't  mean  to  bother  you,  I've  never  quite  understood 
how  I  got  there.  I  don't  care  so  much  what  happens  to  me, 
now  that  I've  told  you,"  Janet  added.  "It  was  mean,  not 
to  tell  you,  but  I'd  never  had  anything  like  this  —  what 
you  were  giving  me  —  and  I  wanted  all  I  could  get." 


438  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"I'm  thankful  you  did  come  to  us!"  Augusta  Maturin 
managed  to  reply. 

"You  mean  — ?"  Janet  exclaimed. 

"I  mean,  that  we  who  have  been  more  —  fortunate  don't 
look  at  these  things  quite  as  we  used  to,  that  the  world  is 
less  censorious,  is  growing  to  understand  situations  it  for 
merly  condemned.  And  —  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  a 
monster  you  supposed  me  to  be,  Janet." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Maturin!" 

"I  mean  that  I'm  a  woman,  too,  my  dear,  although  my 
life  has  been  sheltered.  Otherwise,  what  has  happened  to 
you  might  have  happened  to  me.  And  besides,  I  am  what 
is  called  unconventional,  I  have  little  theories  of  my  own 
about  life,  and  now  that  you  have  told  me  everything  I 
understand  you  and  love  you  even  more  than  I  did  before." 

Save  that  her  breath  came  fast,  Janet  lay  still  against 
the  cushions  of  the  armchair.  She  was  striving  to  grasp 
the  momentous  and  unlooked-for  fact  of  her  friend's  un 
changed  attitude.  Then  she  asked  :  — 

"Mrs.  Maturin,  do  you  believe  in  God?" 

Augusta  Maturin  was  startled  by  the  question.  "I  like 
to  think  of  Him  as  light,  Janet,  and  that  we  are  plants  seek 
ing  to  grow  toward  Him  —  no  matter  from  what  dark 
crevice  we  may  spring.  Even  in  our  mistakes  and  sins  we 
are  seeking  Him,  for  these  are  ignorances,  and  as  the  world 
learns  more,  we  shall  know  Him  better  and  better.  It  is 
natural  to  long  for  happiness,  and  happiness  is  self-realiza 
tion,  and  self-realization  is  knowledge  and  light." 

"That  is  beautiful,"  said  Janet  at  length. 

"It  is  all  we  can  know  about  God,"  said  Mrs.  Maturin, 
"but  it  is  enough."  She  had  been  thinking  rapidly.  "And 
now,"  she  went  on,  "we  shall  have  to  consider  what  is  to  be 
done.  I  don't  pretend  that  the  future  will  be  easy,  but  it 
will  not  be  nearly  as  hard  for  you  as  it  might  have  been, 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  439 

since  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  desert  you. 
I'm  sure  you  will  not  let  it  crush  you.  In  the  first  place, 
you  will  have  something  to  go  on  with  —  mental  resources, 
I  mean,  for  which  you  have  a  natural  craving,  books  and 
art  and  nature,  the  best  thoughts  and  the  best  interpretations. 
We  can  give  you  these.  And  you  will  have  your  child,  and 
work  to  do,  for  I'm  sure  you're  industrious.  And  of  course 
I'll  keep  your  secret,  my  dear." 

"  But  —  how  ?  "  Janet  exclaimed. 

"I've  arranged  it  all.  You'll  stay  here  this  spring,  you'll 
come  to  my  house  on  Monday,  just  as  we  planned,  and  later 
on  you  may  go  to  Mrs.  Case's,  if  it  will  make  you  feel  more 
independent,  and  do  typewriting  until  the  spring  term  is 
over.  I've  told  you  about  my  little  camp  away  up  in 
Canada,  in  the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  where  I  go  in  sum 
mer.  We'll  stay  there  until  the  autumn,  until  your  baby 
comes,  and,  after  that,  I  know  it  won't  be  difficult  to  get  you 
a  position  in  the  west,  where  you  can  gain  your  living  and 
have  your  child.  I  have  a  good  friend  in  California  who  I'm 
sure  will  help  you.  And  even  if  your  secret  should  eventually 
be  discovered  —  which  is  not  probable  —  you  will  have 
earned  respect,  and  society  is  not  as  stern  as  it  used  to  be. 
And  you  will  always  have  me  for  a  friend.  There,  that's 
the  bright  side  of  it.  Of  course  it  isn't  a  bed  of  roses,  but 
I've  lived  long  enough  to  observe  that  the  people  who  lie  on 
roses  don't  always  have  the  happiest  lives.  \Vhenever  you 
want  help  and  advice,  I  shall  always  be  here,  and  from 
time  to  time  I'll  be  seeing  you.  Isn't  that  sensible?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Maturin  —  if  you  really  want  me  — still?" 

"  I  do  want  you,  Janet,  even  more  than  I  did  —  before, 
because  you  need  me  more,"  Mrs.  Maturin  replied,  with  a 
sincerity  that  could  not  fail  to  bring  conviction.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXI 


As  the  spring  progressed,  Janet  grew  stronger,  became 
well  again,  and  through  the  kindness  of  Dr.  Ledyard,  the 
principal,  was  presently  installed  with  a  typewriter  in  a 
little  room  in  an  old  building  belonging  to  the  Academy 
in  what  was  called  Bramble  Street,  and  not  far  from  the 
Common.  Here,  during  the  day,  she  industriously  copied 
manuscripts  or,  from  her  notebook,  letters  dictated  by 
various  members  of  the  faculty.  And  she  was  pleased  when 
they  exclaimed  delightedly  at  the  flawless  copies  and  failed 
to  suspect  her  of  frequent  pilgrimages  to  the  dictionary 
in  the  library  in  order  to  familiarize  herself  with  the  mean 
ing  and  manner  of  spelling  various  academic  words.  At 
first  it  was  almost  bewildering  to  find  herself  in  some  degree 
thus  sharing  the  Silliston  community  life;  and  an  unpre 
meditated  attitude  toward  these  learned  ones,  high  priests 
of  the  muses  she  had  so  long  ignorantly  worshipped,  ac 
counted  perhaps  for  a  great  deal  in  their  attitude  toward 
her.  Her  fervour,  repressed  yet  palpable,  was  like  a  flame 
burning  before  their  altars  —  a  flattery  to  which  the  learned, 
being  human,  are  quick  to  respond.  Besides,  something 
of  her  history  was  known,  and  she  was  of  a  type  to  incite 
a  certain  amount  of  interest  amongst  these  discerning  ones. 
Often,  after  she  had  taken  their  dictation,  or  brought  their 
manuscripts  home,  they  detained  her  in  conversation.  In 
short,  Silliston  gave  its  approval  to  this  particular  experi 
ment  of  Augusta  Maturin.  As  for  Mrs.  Maturin  herself, 

440 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  441 

her  feeling  was  one  of  controlled  pride  not  unmixed  with 
concern,  always  conscious  as  she  was  of  the  hidden  element 
of  tragedy  in  the  play  she  had  so  lovingly  staged.  Not 
that  she  had  any  compunction  in  keeping  Janet's  secret, 
even  from  Insall ;  but  sometimes  as  she  contemplated  it  the 
strings  of  her  heart  grew  tight.  Silliston  was  so  obviously 
where  Janet  belonged,  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
the  girl  going  out  again  from  this  sheltered  spot  into  a 
chaotic  world  of  smoke  and  struggle. 

Janet's  own  feelings  were  a  medley.  It  was  not,  of 
course,  contentment  she  knew  continually,  nor  even  peace, 
although  there  were  moments  when  these  stole  over  her. 
There  were  moments,  despite  her  incredible  good  fortune,  of 
apprehension  when  she  shrank  from  the  future,  when  fear 
assailed  her ;  moments  of  intense  sadness  at  the  thought  of 
leaving  her  friends,  of  leaving  this  enchanted  place  now 
that  miraculously  she  had  found  it ;  moments  of  stimulation, 
of  exaltation,  when  she  forgot.  Her  prevailing  sense,  as 
she  found  herself  again,  was  of  thankfulness  and  gratitude, 
of  determination  to  take  advantage  of,  to  drink  in  all  of 
this  wonderful  experience,  lest  any  precious  memory  be  lost. 

Like  a  jewel  gleaming  with  many  facets,  each  sunny  day 
was  stored  and  treasured.  As  she  went  from  Mrs.  Case's 
boarding-house  forth  to  her  work,  the  sweet,  sharp  air 
of  these  spring  mornings  was  filled  with  delicious  smells 
of  new  things,  of  new  flowers  and  new  grass  and  tender, 
new  leaves  of  myriad  shades,  bronze  and  crimson,  fuzzy 
white,  primrose,  and  emerald  green.  And  sometimes  it 
seemed  as  though  the  pink  and  white  clouds  of  the  little 
orchards  were  wTafted  into  swooning  scents.  She  loved  best 
the  moment  when  the  Common  came  in  view,  when  through 
the  rows  of  elms  the  lineaments  of  those  old  houses  rose 
before  her,  lineaments  seemingly  long  familiar,  as  of  old  and 
trusted  friends,  and  yet  ever  stirring  new  harmonies  and 


442  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

new  visions.  Here,  in  their  midst,  she  belonged,  and  here, 
had  the  world  been  otherwise  ordained,  she  might  have  lived 
on  in  one  continuous,  shining  spring.  At  the  corner  of  the 
Common,  foursquare,  ample,  painted  a  straw  colour  trimmed 
with  white,  with  its  high  chimneys  and  fan-shaped  stair 
way  window,  its  balustraded  terrace  porch  open  to  the 
sky,  was  the  eighteenth  century  mansion  occupied  by  Dr. 
Ledyard.  What  was  the  secret  of  its  flavour?  And  how 
account  for  the  sense  of  harmony  inspired  by  another  dwell 
ing,  built  during  the  term  of  the  second  Adams,  set  in  a 
frame  of  maples  and  shining  white  in  the  morning  sun  ?  Its 
curved  portico  was  capped  by  a  wrought-iron  railing,  its 
long  windows  were  touched  with  purple,  and  its  low  garret 
—  set  like  a  deckhouse  on  the  wide  roof  —  suggested  hidden 
secrets  of  the  past.  Here  a  Motley  or  a  Longfellow  might 
have  dwelt,  a  Bryant  penned  his  "  Thanatopsis."  Farther 
on,  chequered  by  shade,  stood  the  quaint  brick  row  of  pro 
fessors'  houses,  with  sloping  eaves  and  recessed  entrances  of 
granite  —  a  subject  for  an  old  English  print.  .  .  .  Along 
the  border  of  the  Common  were  interspersed  among  the 
ancient  dormitories  and  halls  the  new  and  dignified  buildings 
of  plum-coloured  brick  that  still  preserved  the  soul  of  Sillis- 
ton.  And  to  it  the  soul  of  Janet  responded. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  when  her  tasks  were  finished, 
Janet  would  cross  the  Common  to  Mrs.  Maturin's  —  a 
dwelling  typical  of  the  New  England  of  the  past,  with  the 
dimensions  of  a  cottage  and  something  of  the  dignity  of  a 
mansion.  Fluted  white  pilasters  adorned  the  corners,  the 
windows  were  protected  by  tiny  eaves,  the  roof  was  guarded 
by  a  rail ;  the  classically  porched  entrance  was  approached 
by  a  path  between  high  clipped  hedges  of  hemlock;  and 
through  the  library,  on  the  right,  you  reached  the  flagged 
terrace  beside  a  garden,  rioting  in  the  carnival  colours  of 
spring.  By  September  it  would  have  changed.  For  there  is 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  443 

one  glory  of  the  hyacinth,  of  the  tulip  and  narcissus  and  the 
jonquil,  and  another  of  the  Michaelmas  daisy  and  the  aster. 

Insall  was  often  there,  and  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays  he 
took  Mrs.  Maturin  and  Janet  on  long  walks  into  the  country. 
There  were  afternoons  when  the  world  was  flooded  with 
silver  light,  when  the  fields  were  lucent  in  the  sun;  and 
afternoons  stained  with  blue,  —  the  landscape  like  a  tapestry 
woven  in  delicate  greens  on  a  ground  of  indigo.  The  arbutus, 
all  aglow  and  fragrant  beneath  its  leaves,  the  purple  fringed 
polygala  were  past,  but  they  found  the  pale  gold  lily  of  the 
bellwort,  the  rust-red  bloom  of  the  ginger.  In  the  open  spaces 
under  the  sky  were  clouds  of  bluets,  wild  violets,  and  white 
strawberry  flowers  clustering  beside  the  star  moss  all  ashim- 
mer  with  new  green.  The  Canada  Mayflower  spread  a 
carpet  under  the  pines ;  and  in  the  hollows  where  the  mists 
settled,  where  the  brooks  flowed,  where  the  air  wras  heavy 
with  the  damp,  ineffable  odour  of  growing  things,  they  gath 
ered  drooping  adder's-tongues,  white-starred  bloodroots  and 
foam-flowers.  From  Insall's  quick  eye  nothing  seemed  to 
escape.  He  would  point  out  to  them  the  humming-bird 
that  hovered,  a  bright  blur,  above  the  columbine,  the  wood 
pecker  glued  to  the  trunk  of  a  maple  high  above  their  heads, 
the  red  gleam  of  a  tanager  flashing  through  sunlit  foliage, 
the  oriole  and  vireo  where  they  hid.  And  his  was  the  ear 
that  first  caught  the  exquisite,  distant  note  of  the  hermit. 
Once  he  stopped  them,  startled,  to  listen  to  the  cock  par 
tridge  drumming  to  its  mate.  .  .  . 

Sometimes,  of  an  evening,  when  Janet  was  helping  Mrs. 
Maturin  in  her  planting  or  weeding,  Insall  would  join  them, 
rolling  up  the  sleeves  of  his  flannel  shirt  and  kneeling  beside 
them  in  the  garden  paths.  Mrs.  Maturin  was  forever 
asking  his  advice,  though  she  did  not  always  follow  it. 

"Now,  Brooks,"  she  would  say,  "you've  just  got  to  sug 
gest  something  to  put  in  that  border  to  replace  the  hyacinths. 


444  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

I  had  larkspur  last  year  —  you  remember  —  and  it  looked 
like  a  chromo  in  a  railroad  folder." 

"Let  me  see  —  did  I  advise  larkspur?"  he  would  ask. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you  must  have  —  I  always  do  what  you 
tell  me.  It  seems  to  me  I've  thought  of  every  possible 
flower  in  the  catalogue.  You  know,  too,  only  you're  so 
afraid  of  committing  yourself." 

Insall's  comic  spirit,  betrayed  by  his  expressions,  by  the 
quizzical  intonations  of  his  voice,  never  failed  to  fill  Janet 
with  joy,  while  it  was  somehow  suggestive,  too,  of  the 
vast  fund  of  his  resource.  Mrs.  Maturin  was  right,  he  could 
have  solved  many  of  her  questions  offhand  if  he  had  so 
wished,  but  he  had  his  own  method  of  dealing  with  appeals. 
His  head  tilted  on  one  side,  apparently  in  deep  thought  over 
the  problem,  he  never  answered  outright,  but  by  some  pro 
cess  of  suggestion  unfathomable  to  Janet,  and  by  eliminating, 
not  too  deprecatingly,  Mrs.  Maturin's  impatient  proposals, 
brought  her  to  a  point  where  she  blurted  out  the  solution 
herself. 

"  Oriental  poppies !  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  think  of 
them!" 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  Insall  echoed  —  and  Janet,  bend 
ing  over  her  weeding,  made  sure  they  had  been  in  his  mind 
all  the  while. 

Augusta  Maturin's  chief  extravagance  was  books;  she 
could  not  bear  to  await  her  turn  at  the  library,  and  if  she 
liked  a  book  she  wished  to  own  it.  Subscribing  to  several 
reviews,  three  English  and  one  American,  she  scanned 
them  eagerly  every  week  and  sent  in  orders  to  her  Boston 
bookseller.  As  a  consequence  the  carved  walnut  racks  on 
her  library  table  were  constantly  being  strained.  A  good 
book,  she  declared,  ought  to  be  read  aloud,  and  discussed 
even  during  its  perusal.  And  thus  Janet,  after  an  elemen 
tary  and  decidedly  unique  introduction  to  worth-while 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  445 

literature  in  the  hospital,  was  suddenly  plunged  into  the 
vortex  of  modern  thought.  The  dictum  Insall  quoted,  that 
modern  culture  depended  largely  upon  what  one  had  not 
read,  was  applied  to  her ;  a  child  of  the  new  environment 
fallen  into  skilful  hands,  she  was  spared  the  boredom  of 
wading  through  the  so-called  classics  which,  though  useful 
as  milestones,  as  landmarks  for  future  reference,  are  largely 
mere  reminders  of  an  absolute  universe  now  vanished.  The 
arrival  of  a  novel,  play,  or  treatise  by  one  of  that  small  but 
growing  nucleus  of  twentieth  century  seers  was  an  event,  and 
often  a  volume  begun  in  the  afternoon  was  taken  up  again 
after  supper.  While  Mrs.  Maturin  sat  sewing  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lamp,  Janet  had  her  turn  at  reading.  From  the 
first  she  had  been  quick  to  note  Mrs.  Maturin's  inflections, 
and  the  relics  of  a  high-school  manner  were  rapidly  elim 
inated.  The  essence  of  latter-day  realism  and  pragmatism, 
its  courageous  determination  to  tear  away  a  veil  of  which 
she  had  always  been  dimly  aware,  to  look  the  facts  of  human 
nature  in  the  face,  refreshed  her  :  an  increasing  portion  of  it 
she  understood ;  and  she  was  constantly  under  the  spell  of 
the  excitement  that  partially  grasps,  that  hovers  on  the 
verge  of  inspiring  discoveries.  This  excitement,  whenever 
Insall  chanced  to  be  present,  was  intensified,  as  she  sat 
a  silent  but  often  quivering  listener  to  his  amusing  and  pun 
gent  comments  on  these  new  ideas.  His  method  of  discus 
sion  never  failed  to  illuminate  and  delight  her,  and  often, 
when  she  sat  at  her  typewriter  the  next  day,  she  would 
recall  one  of  his  quaint  remarks  that  suddenly  threw  a 
bright  light  on  some  matter  hitherto  obscure.  .  .  .  Occa 
sionally  a  novel  or  a  play  was  the  subject  of  their  talk,  and 
then  they  took  a  delight  in  drawing  her  out,  in  appealing 
to  a  spontaneous  judgment  unhampered  by  pedagogically 
implanted  preconceptions.  Janet  would  grow  hot  from 
shyness. 


446  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

"Say  what  you  think,  my  dear/'  Mrs.  Maturin  would 
urge  her.  "And  remember  that  your  own  opinion  is  worth 
more  than  Shakespeare's  or  Napoleon's!" 

Insall  would  escort  her  home  to  Mrs.  Case's  boarding 
house.  , 


One  afternoon  early  in  June  Janet  sat  in  her  little  room 
working  at  her  letters  when  Brooks  Insall  came  in.  "I 
don't  mean  to  intrude  in  business  hours,  but  I  wanted  to  ask 
if  you  would  do  a  little  copying  for  me,"  he  said,  and  he  laid 
on  her  desk  a  parcel  bound  with  characteristic  neatness. 

"Something  you've  written?"  she  exclaimed,  blushing 
with  pleasure  and  surprise.  He  was  actually  confiding  to 
her  one  of  his  manuscripts  I 

"Well  —  yes,"  he  replied  comically,  eyeing  her. 

"I'll  be  very  careful  with  it.     I'll  do  it  right  away." 

"There's  no  particular  hurry,"  he  assured  her.  "The 
editor's  waited  six  months  for  it  —  another  month  or  so 
won't  matter." 

"Another  month  or  so!"  she  ejaculated,  —  but  he  was 
gone.  Of  course  she  couldn't  have  expected  him  to  remain 
and  talk  about  it ;  but  this  unexpected  exhibition  of  shyness 
concerning  his  work  —  so  admired  by  the  world's  choicer 
spirits  —  thrilled  yet  amused  her,  and  made  her  glow  with 
a  new  understanding.  With  eager  fingers  she  undid  the 
string  and  sat  staring  at  the  regular  script  without  taking 
in,  at  first,  the  meaning  of  a  single  sentence.  It  was  a 
comparatively  short  sketch  entitled  "The  Exile,"  in  which 
shining,  winged  truths  and  elusive  beauties  flitted  contin 
ually  against  a  dark 'background  of  Puritan  oppression;  the 
story  of  one  Basil  Grelott,  a  dreamer  of  Milton's  day,  Oxford 
nurtured,  who,  casting  off  the  shackles  of  dogma  and  man- 
made  decrees,  sailed  with  his  books  to  the  New  England  wil- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  447 

derness  across  the  sea.  There  he  lived,  among  the  savages, 
in  peace  and  freedom  until  the  arrival  of  Winthrop  and  his 
devotees,  to  encounter  persecution  from  those  who  them 
selves  had  fled  from  it.  The  Lord's  Brethren,  he  averred, 
were  worse  than  the  Lord's  Bishops  —  Blackstone's  phrase. 
Janet,  of  course,  had  never  heard  of  Blackstone,  some  of 
whose  experiences  Insall  had  evidently  used.  And  the  Puri 
tans  dealt  with  Grelott  even  as  they  would  have  served  the 
author  of  "Paradise  Lost"  himself,  especially  if  he  had 
voiced  among  them  the  opinions  set  forth  in  his  pamphlet  on 
divorce.  A  portrait  of  a  stern  divine  with  his  infallible 
Book  gave  Janet  a  vivid  conception  of  the  character  of  her 
ancestors;  and  early  Boston,  with  yellow  candlelight 
gleaming  from  the  lantern-like  windows  of  the  wooden, 
Elizabethan  houses,  was  unforgettably  etched.  There 
was  an  inquisition  in  a  freezing  barn  of  a  church,  and 
Basil  Grelott  banished  to  perish  amid  the  forest  in 
his  renewed  quest  for  freedom.  .  .  .  After  reading  the 
manuscript,  Janet  sat  typewriting  into  the  night,  taking 
it  home  with  her  and  placing  it  beside :  her  bed,  lest  it j  be 
lost  to  posterity.  By  five  the  next  evening  she  had 
finished  the  copy. 

A  gentle  rain  had  fallen  during  the  day,  but  had  ceased 
as  she  made  her  way  toward  Insall 's  house.  The  place  was 
familiar  now :  she  had  been  there  to  supper  with  Mrs. 
Maturin,  a  supper  cooked  and  served  by  Martha  Vesey,  an 
elderly,  efficient  and  appallingly  neat  widow,  whom  Insall 
had  discovered  somewhere  in  his  travels  and  installed  as  his 
housekeeper.  Janet  paused  with  her  hand  on  the  gate  latch 
to  gaze  around  her,  at  the  picket  fence  on  which  he  had 
been  working  when  she  had  walked  hither  the  year  before. 
It  was  primly  painted  now,  its  posts  crowned  with  the  carved 
pineapples ;  behind  the  fence  old-fashioned  flowers  were  in 
bloom,  lupins  and  false  indigo;  and  the  retaining  wall  of 


448  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

blue-grey  slaty  stone,  which  he  had  laid  that  spring,  was 
finished.  A  wind  stirred  the  maple,  releasing  a  shower  of 
heavy  drops,  and  she  opened  the  gate  and  went  up  the  path 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  There  was  no  response  —  even 
Martha  must  be  absent,  in  the  village  1  Janet  wras  disap 
pointed,  she  had  looked  forward  to  seeing  him,  to  telling 
him  how  great  had  been  her  pleasure  in  the  story  he  had 
written,  at  the  same  time  doubting  her  courage  to  do  so. 
She  had  never  been  able  to  speak  to  him  about  his  work  — 
and  what  did  her  opinion  matter  to  him?  As  she  turned 
away  the  stillness  was  broken  by  a  humming  sound  grad 
ually  rising  to  a  crescendo,  so  she  ventured  slowly  around 
the  house  and  into  the  orchard  of  gnarled  apple  trees  on  the 
slope  until  she  came  in  sight  of  a  little  white  building  beside 
the  brook.  The  weathervane  perched  on  the  gable,  and 
veering  in  the  wet  breeze,  seemed  like  a  live  fish  swimming  in 
its  own  element ;  and  through  the  open  window  she  saw 
Insall  bending  over  a  lathe,  from  which  the  chips  were 
flying.  She  hesitated.  Then  he  looked  up,  and  seeing  her, 
reached  above  his  head  to  pull  the  lever  that  shut  off  the 
power. 

"Come  in,"  he  called  out,  and  met  her  at  the  doorway. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  white  duck  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  and 
a  pair  of  faded  corduroy  trousers.  "I  wasn't  looking  for 
this  honour,"  he  told  her,  with  a  gesture  of  self -depreca 
tion,  "or  I'd  have  put  on  a  dinner  coat." 

And,  despite  her  eagerness  and  excitement,  she  laughed. 

"I  didn't  dare  to  leave  this  in  the  house,"  she  explained. 
"  Mrs.  Vesey  wasn't  home.  And  I  thought  you  might  be 
here." 

"You  haven't  made  the  copy  already !" 

"Oh,  I  loved  doing  it!"  she  replied,  and  paused,  flushing. 
She  might  have  known  that  it  would  be  simply  impossible 
to  talk  to  him  about  it !  So  she  laid  it  down  on  the  work- 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  449 

bench,  and,  overcome  by  a  sudden  shyness,  retreated  toward 
the  door. 

"You're  not  going!"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I  must  —  and  you're  busy." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  declared,  "not  at  all,  I  was  just  killing 
time  until  supper.  Sit  down!"  And  he  waved  her  to  a 
magisterial-looking  chair  of  Jacobean  design,  with  turned 
legs,  sandpapered  and  immaculate,  that  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  shop. 

"Oh,  not  in  that!"  Janet  protested.  "And  besides,  I'd 
spoil  it  —  I'm  sure  my  skirt  is  wet." 

But  he  insisted,  thrusting  it  under  her.  "You've  come 
along  just  in  time,  I  wanted  a  woman  to  test  it  —  men  are 
no  judges  of  chairs.  There's  a  vacuum  behind  the  small  of 
your  back,  isn't  there  ?  Augusta  will  have  to  put  a  cushion 
in  it." 

"Did  you  make  it  for  Mrs.  Maturin?  She  will  be 
pleased!"  exclaimed  Janet,  as  she  sat  down.  "I  don't 
think  it's  uncomfortable." 

"  I  copied  it  from  an  old  one  in  the  Boston  Art  Museum. 
Augusta  saw  it  there,  and  said  she  wouldn't  be  happy  until 
she  had  one  like  it.  But  don't  tell  her." 

"Not  for  anything!"  Janet  got  to  her  feet  again.  "I 
really  must  be  going." 

"Going  where?" 

"I  told  Mrs.  Maturin  I'd  read  that  new  book  to  her. 
I  couldn't  go  yesterday  —  I  didn't  want  to  go,"  she  added, 
fearing  he  might  think  his  work  had  kept  her. 

"Well,  I'll  walk  over  with  you.  She  asked  me  to  make  a 
little  design  for  a  fountain,  you  know,  and  I'll  have  to  get 
some  measurements." 

As  they  emerged  from  the  shop  and  climbed  the  slope 
Janet  tried  to  fight  off  the  sadness  that  began  to  invade  her. 
Soon  she  would  have  to  be  leaving  all  this!  Her  glance 


450  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

lingered  wistfully  on  the  old  farmhouse  with  its  great 
centre  chimney  from  which  the  smoke  was  curling,  with 
its  diamond-paned  casements  Insall  had  put  into  the  tiny 
frames. 

"What  queer  windows!"  she  said.  "But  they  seem  to 
go  with  the  house,  beautifully." 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  His  tone  surprised  her ;  it  had  a  touch 
more  of  earnestness  than  she  had  ever  before  detected. 
"  They  belong  to  that  type  of  house  —  the  old  settlers 
brought  the  leaded  glass  with  them.  Some  people  think 
they're  cold,  but  I've  arranged  to  make  them  fairly  tight. 
You  see,  I've  tried  to  restore  it  as  it  must  have  been  when 
it  was  built." 

"And  these?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  millstones  of 
different  diameters  that  made  the  steps  leading  down  to  the 
garden. 

"Oh,  that's  an  old  custom,  but  they  are  nice,"  he  agreed. 
"I'll  just  put  this  precious  manuscript  inside  and  get  my 
foot  rule,"  he  added,  opening  the  door,  and  she  stood  await 
ing  him  on  the  threshold,  confronted  by  the  steep  little 
staircase  that  disappeared  into  the  wall  half  way  up.  At 
her  left  was  the  room  where  he  worked,  and  which  once  had 
been  the  farmhouse  kitchen.  She  took  a  few  steps  into  it, 
and  while  he  was  searching  in  the  table  drawer  she  halted 
before  the  great  chimney  over  which,  against  the  panel,  an 
old  bell-mouthed  musket  hung.  Insall  came  over  beside 
her. 

"Those  were  trees!"  he  said.  "That  panel's  over  four 
feet  across,  I  measured  it  once.  I  dare  say  the  pine  it  was 
cut  from  grew  right  where  we  are  standing,  before  the  land 
was  cleared  to  build  the  house." 

"But  the  gun?"  she  questioned.  "You  didn't  have  it 
the  night  we  came  to  supper." 

"No,  I  ran  across  it  at  a  sale  in  Boston.     The  old  settler 


THE  DAYELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  451 

must  have  owned  one  like  that.  I  like  to  think  of  him,  away 
off  here  in  the  wilderness  in  those  early  days." 

She  thought  of  how  Insall  had  made  those  early  days  live 
for  her,  in  his  story  of  Basil  Grelott.  But  to  save  her  soul, 
even  with  such  an  opening,  she  could  not  speak  of  it. 

"  He  had  to  work  pretty  hard,  of  course,"  Insall  continued, 
"but  I  dare  say  he  had  a  fairly  happy  life,  no  movies,  no 
Sunday  supplements,  no  automobiles  or  gypsy  moths.  His 
only  excitement  was  to  trudge  ten  miles  to  Dorset  and  listen 
to  a  three  hour  sermon  on  everlasting  fire  and  brimstone  by 
a  man  who  was  supposed  to  know.  No  wonder  he  slept 
soundly  and  lived  to  be  over  ninety!" 

Insall  was  standing  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eyes 
still  seemingly  fixed  on  the  musket  that  had  suggested  his 
remark  —  a  pose  eloquent,  she  thought,  of  the  mental  and 
physical  balance  of  the  man.  She  wondered  what  belief 
gave  him  the  free  mastery  of  soul  and  body  he  possessed. 
Some  firm  conviction,  she  was  sure,  must  energize  him  — 
yet  she  respected  him  the  more  for  concealing  it. 

"It's  hard  to  understand  such  a  terrible  religion!"  she 
cried.  "I  don't  see  how  those  old  settlers  could  believe  in 
it,  when  there  are  such  beautiful  things  in  the  world,  if  we 
only  open  our  eves  and  look  for  them.  Oh  Mr.  Insall,  I  wish 
I  could  tell  you  how  I  felt  when  I  read  your  story,  and 
when  Mrs.  Maturin  read  me  those  other  books  of  yours !" 

She  stopped  breathlessly,  aghast  at  her  boldness  —  and 
then,  suddenly,  a  barrier  between  them  seemed  to  break 
down,  and  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him  she 
felt  near  to  him.  He  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  her 
tribute. 

"You  like  them  as  much  as  that,  Janet?"  he  said,  look 
ing  at  her. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  much,  I  can't  express  myself.  And 
I  want  to  tell  you  something  else,  Mr.  Insall,  while  I  have 


452  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

the  chance  —  how  just  being  with  you  and  Mrs.  Maturin 
has  changed  me.  I  can  face  life  now,  you  have  shown  me 
so  much  in  it  I  never  saw  before." 

"While  you  have  the  chance?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes."  She  strove  to  go  on  cheerfully,  "Now  I've 
said  it,  I  feel  better,  I  promise  not  to  mention  it  again. 
I  knew  —  you  didn't  think  me  ungrateful.  It's  funny," 
she  added,  "  the  more  people  have  done  for  you  —  when 
they've  given  you  everything,  life  and  hope,  —  the  harder 
it  is  to  thank  them."  She  turned  her  face  away,  lest  he 
might  see  that  her  eyes  were  wet.  "Mrs.  Maturin  will  be 
expecting  us." 

"Not  yet,"  she  heard  him  say,  and  felt  his  hand  on  her 
arm.  "  You  haven't  thought  of  what  you're  doing  for  me. " 

"What  I'm  doing  for  you  I"  she  echoed.  "What  hurts 
me  most,  when  I  think  about  it,  is  that  I'll  never  be  able  to 
do  anything." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  asked. 

"  If  I  only  could  believe  that  some  day  I  might  be  able  to 
help  you  —  just  a  little  —  I  should  be  happier.  All  I  have, 
all  I  am  I  owe  to  you  and  Mrs.  Maturin." 

"No,  Janet," 'he  answered.  "What  you  are  is  you, — 
and  it's  more  real  than  anything  we  could  have  put  into  you. 
What  you  have  to  give  is  —  yourself. ' '  His  fingers  trembled 
on  her  arm,  but  she  saw  him  smile  a  little  before  he  spoke 
again.  "Augusta  Maturin  was  right  when  she  said  that 
you  were  the  woman  I  needed.  I  didn't  realize  it  then  — 
perhaps  she  didn't  —  but  now  I'm  sure  of  it.  Will  you 
come  to  me?" 

She  stood  staring  at  him,  as  in  terror,  suddenly  pene 
trated  by  a  dismay  that  sapped  her  strength,  and  she  leaned 
heavily  against  the  fireplace,  clutching  the  mantel-shelf. 

"  Don't !  "  she  pleaded.     "  Please  don't  —  I  can't." 

"You    can't!  .  .  .     Perhaps,    after    a   while,    you   may 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  453 

come  to  feel  differently  —  I  didn't  mean  to  startle  you," 
she  heard  him  reply  gently.  This  humility,  in  him,  was 
unbearable. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that  —  it  isn't  that !  If  I  could,  I'd  be  will 
ing  to  serve  you  all  my  life  —  I  wouldn't  ask  for  anything 
more.  I  never  thought  that  this  would  happen.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  stayed  in  Silliston." 

"You  didn't  suspect  that  I  loved  you?" 

"How  could  I?  Oh,  I  might  have  loved  you,  if  I'd  been 
fortunate  —  if  I'd  deserved  it.  But  I  never  thought,  I 
always  looked  up  to  you  —  you  are  so  far  above  me!" 
She  lifted  her  face  to  him  in  agony.  "I'm  sorry  —  I'm 
sorry  for  you  —  I'll  never  forgive  myself !" 

"It's  —  some  one  else?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  —  going  to  be  married  to  —  to  Mr.  Ditmar,"  she 
said  slowly,  despairingly. 

"But  even  then  — "  Insall  began. 

"You  don't  understand!"  she  cried.  "What  will  you 
think  of  me?  —  Mrs.  Maturin  was  to  have  told  you,  after 
I'd  gone.  It's  —  it's  the  same  as  if  I  were  married  to  him 
—  only  worse." 

"Worse!"  Insall  repeated  uncomprehendingly.  .  .  . 
And  then  she  was  aware  that  he  had  left  her  side.  He  was 
standing  by  the  window. 

A  thrush  began  to  sing  in  the  maple.  She  stole  silently 
toward  the  door,  and  paused  to  look  back  at  him,  once  — 
to  meet  his  glance.  He  had  turned. 

"I  can't  —  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this!"  she  heard  him 
say,  but  she  fled  from  him,,  out  of  the  gate  and  toward 
the  Common. 


When  Janet  appeared,  Augusta  Maturin  was  in  her  gar 
den.     With    an    instant    perception    that    something    was 


454  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

wrong,  she  went  to  the  girl  and  led  her  to  the  sofa  in  the 
library.  There  the  confession  was  made. 

"I  never  guessed  it,"  Janet  sobbed.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Maturin, 
you'll  believe  me  —  won't  you  ?" 

"Of  course  I  believe  you,  Janet,"  Augusta  Maturin  re 
plied,  trying  to  hide  her  pity,  her  own  profound  concern 
and  perplexity.  "I  didn't  suspect  it  either.  If  I  had — " 

"You  wouldn't  have  brought  me  here,  you  wouldn't  have 
asked  me  to  stay  with  you.  But  I  was  to  blame,  I  oughtn't 
to  have  stayed,  I  knew  all  along  that  something  would 
happen  —  something  terrible  —  that  I  hadn't  any  right  to 
stay." 

"Who  could  have  foreseen  it !"  her  friend  exclaimed  help 
lessly.  "Brooks  isn't  like  any  other  man  I've  ever  known 
—  one  can  never  tell  what  he  has  in  mind.  Not  that  I'm 
surprised  as  I  look  back  upon  it  all !" 

"I've  hurt  him!" 

Augusta  Maturin  was  silent  awhile.  "Remember,  my 
dear,"  she  begged,  "you  haven't  only  yourself  to  think  about, 
from  now  on." 

But  comfort  was  out  of  the  question,  the  task  of  calming 
the  girl  impossible.  Finally  the  doctor  was  sent  for,  and 
she  was  put  to  bed.  .  .  . 

Augusta  Maturin  spent  an  agonized,  sleepless  night,  a 
prey  of  many  emotions;  of  self-reproach,  seeing  now  that 
she  had  been  wrong  in  not  telling  Brooks  Insall  of  the  girl's 
secret;  of  sorrow  and  sympathy  for  him;  of  tenderness 
toward  the  girl,  despite  the  suffering  she  had  brought;  of 
unwonted  rebellion  against  a  world  that  cheated  her  of  this 
cherished  human  tie  for  which  she  had  longed  —  the  first 
that  had  come  into  her  life  since  her  husband  and  child  had 
gone.  And  there  was  her  own  responsibility  for  Insall's 
unhappiness  —  when  she  recalled  with  a  pang  her  innocent 
sayings  that  Janet  was  the  kind  of  woman  he,  an  artist, 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  455 

should  marry  !  And  it  was  true  —  if  he  must  marry.  He 
himself  had  seen  it.  Did  Janet  love  him?  or  did  she  still 
remember  Ditmar?  Again  and  again,  during  the  summer 
that  followed,  this  query  was  on  her  lips,  but  remained 
unspoken.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  Insall  disappeared.  No  one  knew  where  he 
had  gone,  but  his  friends  in  Silliston  believed  he  had  been 
seized  by  one  of  his  sudden,  capricious  fancies  for  wander 
ing.  For  many  months  his  name  was  not  mentioned  between 
Augusta  Maturin  and  Janet.  By  the  middle  of  June  they 
had  gone  to  Canada.  .  .  . 


In  order  to  reach  the  camp  on  Lac  du  Sablier  from  the 
tiny  railroad  station  at  Saint  Hubert,  a  trip  of  some  eight 
miles  up  the  decharge  was  necessary.  The  day  had  been 
when  Augusta  Maturin  had  done  her  share  of  paddling  and 
poling,  with  an  habitant  guide  in  the  bow.  She  had  fore 
seen  all  the  needs  of  this  occasion,  warm  clothes  for  Janet, 
who  was  wrapped  in  blankets  and  placed  on  cushions  in  the 
middle  of  a  canoe,  while  she  herself  followed  in  a  second, 
from  time  to  time  exclaiming,  in  a  reassuring  voice,  that  one 
had  nothing  to  fear  in  the  hands  of  Delphin  and  Herve,  whom 
she  had  known  intimately  for  more  than  twenty  years.  It 
was  indeed  a  wonderful,  exciting,  and  at  moments  seemingly 
perilous  journey  up  the  forested  aisle  of  the  river :  at  sight 
of  the  first  roaring  reach  of  rapids  Janet  held  her  breath  — 
so  incredible  did  it  appear  that  any  human  power  could 
impel  and  guide  a  boat  up  the  white  stairway  between  the 
boulders!  Was  it  not  courting  destruction?  Yet  she  felt 
a  strange,  wild  delight  in  the  sense  of  danger,  of  amazement 
at  the  woodsman's  eye  that  found  and  followed  the  crystal 
paths  through  the  waste  of  foam.  .  .  .  There  were  long, 
quiet  stretches,  hemmed  in  by  alders,  where  the  canoes, 


456  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

dodging  the  fallen  trees,  glided  through  the  still  water.  No 
such  silent,  exhilarating  motion  Janet  had  ever  known. 
Even  the  dipping  paddles  made  no  noise,  though  sometimes 
there  was  a  gurgle,  as  though  a  fish  had  broken  the  water 
behind  them;  sometimes,  in  the  shining  pools  ahead,  she 
saw  the  trout  leap  out.  At  every  startling  flop  Delphin 
would  exclaim:  "Un  gros!"  From  an  upper  branch  of  a 
spruce  a  kingfisher  darted  like  an  arrow  into  the  water, 
making  a  splash  like  a  falling  stone.  Once,  after  they  had 
passed  through  the  breach  of  a  beaver  dam,  Herve  nodded 
his  head  toward  a  mound  of  twigs  by  the  bank  and  muttered 
something.  Augusta  Maturin  laughed. 

"  Cabane  de  castor,  he  says  —  a  beaver  cabin.  And  the 
beavers  made  the  dam  we  just  passed.  Did  you  notice, 
Janet,  how  beautifully  clean  those  logs  had  been  cut  by 
their  sharp  teeth?" 

At  moments  she  conversed  rapidly  with  Delphin  in  the 
same  patois  Janet  had  heard  on  the  streets  of  Hampton. 
How  long  ago  that  seemed  ! 

On  two  occasions,  when  the  falls  were  sheer,  they  had  to 
disembark  and  walk  along  little  portages  through  the  green 
raspberry  bushes.  The  prints  of  great  hooves  hi  the  black 
silt  betrayed  where  wild  animals  had  paused  to  drink. 
They  stopped  for  lunch  on  a  warm  rock  beside  a  singing 
waterfall,  and  at  last  they  turned  an  elbow  in  the  stream 
and  with  suddenly  widened  vision  beheld  the  lake's  sapphire 
expanse  and  the  distant  circle  of  hills.  "  Les  montagnes" 
Herve  called  them  as  he  flung  out  his  pipe,  and  this  Janet 
could  translate  for  herself.  Eastward  they  lay  lucent  in 
the  afternoon  light;  westward,  behind  the  generous  log 
camp  standing  on  a  natural  terrace  above  the  landing,  they 
were  in  shadow.  Here  indeed  seemed  peace,  if  remoteness, 
if  nature  herself  might  bestow  it. 

Janet  little  suspected  that  special  preparations  had  been 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  457 

made  for  her  comfort.  Early  in  April,  while  the  wilderness 
was  still  in  the  grip  of  winter,  Delphin  had  been  summoned 
from  a  far-away  lumber  camp  to  Saint  Hubert,  where  several 
packing-cases  and  two  rolls  of  lead  pipe  from  Montreal  lay 
in  a  shed  beside  the  railroad  siding.  He  had  superintended 
the  transportation  of  these,  on  dog  sledges,  up  the  frozen 
decharge,  accompanied  on  his  last  trip  by  a  plumber  of  sorts 
from  Beaupre,  thirty  miles  down  the  line;  and  between 
them  they  had  improvised  a  bathroom,  and  attached  a 
boiler  to  the  range !  Only  a  week  before  the  arrival  of 
Madame  the  spring  on  the  hillside  above  the  camp  had  been 
tapped,  and  the  pipe  laid  securely  underground.  Besides 
this  unheard-of  luxury  for  the  Lac  du  Sablier  there  were 
iron  beds  and  mattresses  and  little  wood  stoves  to  go  in  the 
four  bedrooms,  which  were  more  securely  chinked  with 
moss.  The  traditions  of  that  camp  had  been  hospitable. 
In  Professor  Wishart's  day  many  guests  had  come  and 
gone,  or  pitched  their  tents  nearby ;  and  Augusta  Maturin, 
until  this  summer,  had  rarely  been  here  alone,  although  she 
had  no  fears  of  the  wilderness,  and  Delphin  brought  his 
daughter  Delphine  to  do  the  housework  and  cooking.  The 
land  for  miles  round  about  was  owned  by  a  Toronto  capi 
talist  who  had  been  a  friend  of  her  father,  and  who  could 
afford  as  a  hobby  the  sparing  of  the  forest.  By  his  permis 
sion  a  few  sportsmen  came  to  fish  or  shoot,  and  occasionally 
their  campfires  could  be  seen  across  the  water,  starlike 
glows  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  at  morning  and  evening 
little  blue  threads  of  smoke  that  rose  against  the  forest; 
"bocane,"  Delphin  called  it,  and  Janet  found  a  sweet, 
strange  magic  in  these  words  of  the  pioneer. 

The  lake  was  a  large  one,  shaped  like  an  hourglass,  as  its 
name  implied,  and  Augusta  Maturin  sometimes  paddled 
Janet  through  the  wide,  shallow  channel  to  the  northern 
end,  even  as  she  had  once  paddled  Gifford.  Her  genius  was 


458  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

for  the  helpless.  One  day,  when  the  waters  were  high,  and 
the  portages  could  be  dispensed  with,  they  made  an  excur 
sion  through  the  Riviere  des  Peres  to  the  lake  of  that  name, 
the  next  in  the  chain  above.  For  luncheon  they  ate  the 
trout  Augusta  caught;  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  they 
returned  to  the  mouth  of  the  outlet,  Herve,  softly  checking 
the  canoe  with  his  paddle,  whispered  the  word  "Arignal!" 
Thigh  deep  in  the  lush  grasses  of  the  swamp  was  an  animal 
with  a  huge  grey  head,  like  a  donkey's,  staring  foolishly  in 
their  direction  —  a  cow  moose.  With  a  tremendous  com 
motion  that  awoke  echoes  in  the  forest  she  tore  herself 
from  the  mud  and  disappeared,  followed  by  her  panic- 
stricken  offspring,  a  caricature  of  herself.  .  .  . 

By  September  the  purple  fireweed  that  springs  up  beside 
old  camps,  and  in  the  bois  bride,  had  bloomed  and  scattered 
its  myriad,  impalpable  thistledowns  over  crystal  floors. 
Autumn  came  to  the  Laurentians.  In  the  morning  the  lake 
lay  like  a  quicksilver  pool  under  the  rising  mists,  through 
which  the  sun  struck  blinding  flashes  of  light.  A  little  later, 
when  the  veil  had  lifted,  it  became  a  mirror  for  the  hills  and 
crags,  the  blue  reaches  of  the  sky.  The  stinging  air  was 
spiced  with  balsam.  Revealed  was  the  incredible  bril 
liance  of  another  day,  —  the  arsenic-green  of  the  spruce, 
the  red  and  gold  of  the  maples,  the  yellow  of  the  alders 
bathing  in  the  shallows,  of  the  birches,  whose  white  limbs 
could  be  seen  gleaming  in  the  twilight  of  the  thickets. 
Early,  too  early,  the  sun  fell  down  behind  the  serrated  forest- 
edge  of  the  western  hill,  a  ball  of  orange  fire.  .  .  .  One 
evening  Delphin  and  Herve,  followed  by  two  other  canoes, 
paddled  up  to  the  landing.  New  visitors  had  arrived,  Dr. 
McLeod,  who  had  long  been  an  intimate  of  the  Wishart 
family,  and  with  him  a  buxom,  fresh-complexioned  Canadian 
woman,  a  trained  nurse  whom  he  had  brought  from  Toronto. 

There,  in  nature's  wilderness,  Janet  knew  the  supreme 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  459 

experience  of  women,  the  agony,  the  renewal  and  joy  symbolic 
of  nature  herself.  When  the  child  was  bathed  and  dressed  in 
the  clothes  Augusta  Maturin  herself  had  made  for  it,  she 
brought  it  into  the  room  to  the  mother. 

"It's  a  daughter,"  she  announced. 

Janet  regarded  the  child  wistfully.  "I  hoped  it  would 
be  a  boy,"  she  said.  "He  would  have  had  —  a  better 
chance."  But  she  raised  her  arms,  and  the  child  was  laid 
in  the  bed  beside  her. 

"We'll  see  that  she  has  a  chance,  my  dear,"  Augusta 
Maturin  replied,  as  she  kissed  her. 


Ten  days  went  by,  Dr.  McLeod  lingered  at  Lac  du  Sablier, 
and  Janet  was  still  in  bed.  Even  in  this  life-giving  air  she 
did  not  seem  to  grow  stronger.  Sometimes,  when  the  child 
was  sleeping  in  its  basket  on  the  sunny  porch,  Mrs.  Maturin 
read  to  her;  but  often  when  she  was  supposed  to  rest,  she 
lay  gazing  out  of  the  open  window  into  silver  space  listen 
ing  to  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  loons,  watching  the  ducks 
flying  across  the  sky ;  or,  as  evening  drew  on,  marking  in  the 
waters  a  steely  angle  that  grew  and  grew  —  the  wake  of  a 
beaver  swimming  homeward  in  the  twilight.  In  the  cold 
nights  the  timbers  cracked  to  the  frost,  she  heard  the  owls 
calling  to  one  another  from  the  fastnesses  of  the  forest,  and 
thought  of  life's  inscrutable  mystery.  Then  the  child  would 
be  brought  to  her.  It  was  a  strange,  unimagined  happiness 
she  knew  when  she  felt  it  clutching  at  her  breasts,  at  her 
heart,  a  happiness  not  unmixed  with  yearning,  with  sadness 
as  she  pressed  it  to  her.  Why  could  it  not  remain  there 
always,  to  comfort  her,  to  be  nearer  her  than  any  living 
thing?  Reluctantly  she  gave  it  back  to  the  nurse,  wist 
fully  her  eyes  followed  it.  ... 


460  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT 

Twice  a  week,  now,  Delphin  and  Herve  made  the  journey 
to  Saint  Hubert,  and  one  evening,  after  Janet  had  watched 
them  paddling  across  the  little  bay  that  separated  the  camp 
from  the  outlet's  mouth,  Mrs.  Maturin  appeared,  with  an 
envelope  in  her  hand. 

"  I've  got  a  letter  from  Brooks  Insall,  Janet,"  she  said,  with 
a  well-disguised  effort  to  speak  naturally.  "  It's  not  the 
first  one  he's  sent  me,  but  I  haven't  mentioned  the  others. 
He's  in  Silliston  —  and  I  wrote  him  about  the  daughter." 

"Yes,"  said  Janet. 

"  Well  —  he  wants  to  come  up  here,  to  see  you,  before  we 
go  away.  He  asks  me  to  telegraph  your  permission." 

"Oh  no,  he  mustn't,  Mrs.  Maturin!" 

"You  don't  care  to  see  him?" 

"It  isn't  that.  I'd  like  to  see  him  if  things  had  been 
different.  But  now  that  I've  disappointed  him  —  hurt 
him,  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  know  it's  only  his  kindness." 

After  a  moment  Augusta  Maturin  handed  Janet  a  sealed 
envelope  she  held  in  her  hand. 

"He  asked  me  to  give  you  this,"  she  said,  and  left  the 
room.  Janet  read  it,  and  let  it  fall  on  the  bedspread,  where 
it  was  still  lying  when  her  friend  returned  and  began  tidy 
ing  the  room.  From  the  direction  of  the  guide's  cabin,  on 
the  point,  came  the  sounds  of  talk  and  laughter,  broken  by 
snatches  of  habitant  songs.  Augusta  Maturin  smiled.  She 
pretended  not  to  notice  the  tears  in  Janet's  eyes,  and  strove 
to  keep  back  her  own. 

"Delphin  and  Herve  saw  a  moose  in  the  decharge,"  she 
explained.  "  Of  course  it  was  a  big  one,  it  always  is ! 
They're  telling  the  doctor  about  it." 

"Mrs.  Maturin,"  said  Janet,  "I'd  like  to  talk  to  you. 
I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  Mr.  Insall  says." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  her  friend  replied,  a  little  faintly,  sitting 
down  on  the  bed. 


THE   DWELLING-PLACE  OF  LIGHT  461 

"He  asks  me  to  believe  what  —  I've  done  makes  no  dif 
ference  to  him.  Of  course  he  doesn't  put  it  in  so  many 
words,  but  he  says  he  doesn't  care  anything  about  conven 
tions,"  Janet  continued  slowly.  "  What  I  told  him  when  he 
asked  me  to  marry  him  in  Silliston  was  a  shock  to  him,  it 
was  so  —  so  unexpected.  He  went  away,  to  Maine,  but  as 
soon  as  he  began  to  think  it  all  over  he  wanted  to  come  and 
tell  me  that  he  loved  me  in  spite  of  it,  but  he  felt  he  couldn't, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  he  had  to  wait  until  —  now. 
Although  I  didn't  give  him  any  explanation,  he  wants  me  to 
know  that  he  trusts  me,  he  understands  —  it's  because,  he 
says,  I  am  what  I  am.  He  still  wishes  to  marry  me,  to  take 
care  of  me  and  the  child.  We  could  live  in  California,  at 
first  —  he's  always  been  anxious  to  go  there,  he  says." 

"Well,  my  dear?"  Augusta  Maturin  forced  herself  to 
say  at  last. 

"It's  so  generous  —  so  like  him!"  Janet  exclaimed. 
"But  of  course  I  couldn't  accept  such  a  sacrifice,  even  if  — " 
She  paused.  "  Oh,  it's  made  me  so  sad  all  summer  to  think 
that  he's  unhappy  because  of  me !" 

"I  know,  Janet,  but  you  should  realize,  as  I  told  you  in 
Silliston,  that  it  isn't  by  any  deliberate  act  of  your  own,  it's 
just  one  of  those  things  that  occur  in  this  world  and  that 
can't  be  foreseen  or  avoided."  Augusta  Maturin  spoke 
with  an  effort.  In  spite  of  Janet's  apparent  calm,  she  had 
never  been  more  acutely  aware  of  the  girl's  inner  suffering. 

"I  know,"  said  Janet.  "But  it's  terrible  to  think  that 
those  things  we  unintentionally  do,  perhaps  because  of 
faults  we  have  previously  committed,  should  have  the  same 
effect  as  acts  that  are  intentional." 

"The  world  is  very  stupid.  All  suffering,  I  think,  is 
brought  about  by  stupidity.  If  we  only  could  learn  to  look 
at  ourselves  as  we  are  !  It's  a  stupid,  unenlightened  society 
that  metes  out  most  of  our  punishments  and  usually  de- 


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JUN  1 8  1996 


JUI.  9.1  1997 


YB  73585 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


